Lock & Key
by MistroStrings
Summary: THIRD IN THE SERIES (BOOK THREE) My eyes scanned over the eerie symbol. "I know everything about that picture." Chills shot up my back as I stared into the thick, black ink. This case would be the darkest one yet. HolmesxOC Holmes/OC
1. Second Guessing

**Well, the first chapter is finished! It may be a bit confusing, but more details will be added later, as I'm sure you know. If you have any questions, feel free to ask in your review. Which, you all should do. :] **

**~Mistro**

~.~.~.~.~.~

_Right hand punctures the left elbow pit. _

Holmes and I were in Paris, France. One of the world's most magnificent cities. Filled with romance, art and culture, Paris is said to be one of the best getaways in Europe, let alone the world. I finally get to come and what do I see?

Death.

_Avoid potential locking on his part as his upper arm wraps around my right._

It had been a week and four days since the last had finished. My mother kept me at home most of the time, and I unfortunately hadn't seen Holmes for a few days. I sat at home and took care of my mother, which was something I couldn't complain about. It was nice spending time with her and I got to tell her all about my incredible escapades so far. That is, until she begged me to stop out of disgust and lack of interest. It was not very ladylike, you see. Not only that, but I devoured the books of Professor James Moriarty. Inside my wooden-shafted bedroom I curled up in the nooks of my den and sat with both hands gripping the cover. He was becoming a sort of personal hero of mine.

_Snap left hand towards opposite left, causing quick release._

I did miss Sherlock; going a few days without seeing him felt almost surreal. He had become a large part of my life, and I believed myself to be one in his. Having him away caused me to ask questions, however. How on Earth did he find me interesting? At what point did his feelings of interest gradually grow? I couldn't remember a time when I had impressed him at all, really. I sort of just tagged along and that was that. Certainly it would be a question to ask him… at a later date.

When he had shown up at my house a few days after not seeing him, I jumped at the sound of his voice. It had begun to fade from my mind and it took all of my power not to grin like a young girl and embrace him. He was very serious when he came, however. My excitement didn't last long. He told me to pack my bags. We were going to Paris.

_As hand falls shoot outwards towards chest with both fists. Remember thumb position._

I suppose I did promise him that I would help out, despite how quick the next case came on. It had been all or nothing. I chose all. Holmes had invited me to France with him, that much was true. But, not for a holiday. Of course not. It was for the beginning of yet another case and Holmes had jumped on the opportunity to go to France the minute it presented itself. I had never been to France and was never particularly interested in going, but I had put on a bright smile when he asked me to accompany him and shouted; "Yes! I've always wanted to go!"

I wasn't sure if that had been the first time I lied to him, but I could feel myself getting sick just speaking the words. Boats, foreign words, crowded streets, odd food… It wasn't exactly my forte.

_Knock out wind held in chest cavity._

The boat ride was, for lack of better words, an interesting one. I had never left England before in my life. I was a countryside gal. I liked places like Bath, with hills and quiet riversides and large trees to nest under. I enjoyed getting lost in the rolling moors of Bronte sister books and Jane Austen novels. Naturally, I didn't tell Holmes that I was a homebody when we left. I should have warned him that traveling by way of boat would not probably agree with me.

_Pull down head with right arm, locked between upper and lower arm._

Well, it didn't take him long to figure out. I can't say I remember much of the ride. I spent my time in the bottom level of the ship, lying on a cot with a bucket next to me. In my head, I kept cursing myself. "This is why I don't travel," I muttered as sweat dripped from my body. I would lull off into long sleeps and then wake up only to be sick once again. That was practically all I remembered from the trip, since it was all I did. I remember that, and the fact that Holmes sat beside me the entire way. He ate his meals by me and helped me clean myself up when I needed it. I felt weak and thin by the time we left. I was terrified to look at myself in a mirror. Once again, I was embarrassed.

Once again, I was entirely grateful to him.

_Watch as head lifts up and left arm reaches for my own._ _Not part of the plan._

When we entered France finally, my ears were not tuned to the romantic language. Holmes spoke it easily to everyone as he asked for directions. I stood by and watched, entranced by his intelligence. That wasn't terribly unusual for me; sitting by and admiring. I spent most of the time in the hotel room for the first two days and surprisingly, so did Holmes. To keep me company he did his research in my room. He would sit at the desk and flip through French and British newspapers. Normally, I may have been bothered that I couldn't have been of more help, but I was otherwise engaged.

I sat on the balcony with my book, The Art Domestic Horticulture by Moriarty, and soaked in the French sun. Paris was beautiful, that much was true. I would use the sunshine to my pale skin's advantage until Holmes snapped me back into reality.

_Plan beginning to deteriorate. _

Lestrade had heard word about the case through the papers, and naturally, so had Holmes. When the inspector came to Holmes's house to discuss it, Sherlock was way ahead of him. He was already on a train headed to Paris. And, unfortunately for me, I was tagging along. Watson informed us of his slight annoyance via telegram when we arrived in our hotel. I watched as Holmes's eyes glazed over the message and then saw the signature. A long look of lost glory glistened in his eyes. I wasn't Watson's replacement, but I still couldn't compare. No one ever would.

_Feel sharp pain in my arm as fingers grip it tightly._

Watson was back in London with Mary. He had encouraged me to go, though I didn't find it the least bit enticing. I didn't speak the language, I didn't know the people, and I had to admit that a break from gloomy nights might have been nice. It was nearly March and I didn't want to spend my favorite season surrounded by death and suffering. At least I had a little while for spring to find me.

_Get spun around and shoved towards the ground._

My mother on the other hand was beside herself in jealousy. She'd always wanted to get out of London and run away to Paris. Sadly for her, there was no one to run away with. My father was by and by a British man. He liked to travel, but moving somewhere else? Positively out of the question. I think I had to agree with him on that one. Of course, when I told my mother I was going, I did mention it was on business. That part did not please her. Nonetheless, I was almost twenty six. I told myself it was my decision and passed the message onto her.

_Three seconds until I hit the wooden floor._

_Three._

_Two._

Caught. Gentle hands wrapped themselves around my back as I tried to catch my breath. The curls of my bunned hair tumbled down and out of my ribbon like a pool of dark waves. I blinked as I stared into the face of my defeater and felt no sense of pride towards my progression. Though I was doing much better than I had earlier that day, I had still lost.

"You, Miss Adkins, have improved."

"Improvement is not success. It's not enough."

Holmes was dipping me down like the ending of a Spanish dance, but to me it didn't seem quite as graceful. My face was sweating and my arms were tired from what seemed like hours of practice. I might have felt embarrassed to look that way in front of a man, but it was Holmes. He had seen me in much worse conditions and his appearance matched my own. Learning to fight was hard. Learning from Holmes was ever harder.

He was on edge lately because of the case, and I'm certain after catering to me on the boat, he was ready to get away from the boring Renadale Adkins. Yet, after he had done his research, he had insisted on teaching me basic fighting skills. "Watson has failed miserably, but I have faith in you," he had said to me the day before. I was nervous out of my wits. I would have to hit him. He would have to hit me back. I didn't want to cause him pain, though I was pretty sure it would be me getting all of the punches.

"Renadale," he sighed as he helped stand me up straight. My heart still wasn't used to hearing my name in his voice. His hold on me had been so tight, and lately it was as if he had totally forgotten my feelings towards him. It was all about the case now. I had to keep calm around him and relax my beating heart. "One should be confident in the things that they are good at. Though you're not exactly an expert yet, you must take my word as your boss, friend and confidant and believe me when I say that you have… potential."

I ignored what he said and crossed the room toward a water basin. I didn't even have the breath to answer him. I grabbed a pink towel that lay beside it and splashed the cold water up onto my face. My mind had been somewhere else in my state of frustration and naturally I closed my eyes a bit too late, feeling the sting of liquid against them. "Ah!" I grumbled, tossing the wet rag away and drying my eyes with my long, blue sleeves.

Holmes stared at me silently from across the luxurious hotel room. His brow was raised with curiosity as his characteristic pipe hung limply from his lips. "You seem frazzled."

"I'm not," I sighed as I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror on the nearby wall. My makeup was smearing off and I had to admit that I looked like a pauper. Wasn't the first time. I groaned and snatched my maroon ribbon from the floor. "I just know that I can do better," I grumbled, tying my hair into a long braid.

Holmes laughed heartily as he pulled his pipe from his mouth. "Earlier, when I mentioned that one should be confident in what they do best, I meant it. So, do not take offense to what I'm about to explain next." Carefully, I lifted my head. What lecture was I getting now? "I have been boxing for years and am, though it is not ranked, one of the best boxers in London. I do it because I enjoy it, and therefore… I practice."

"Everything comes naturally to you," I said as I sat myself down on the large bed. It's gold and white sheets pulled me in greedily. The soft sinking relaxed my aching body, but my mind was still complaining. "Whereas for me, there are only a few things I am good at and nothing of much importance."

"Which is why I have invited you here with me, to France. Because you have useful ideas in that head of yours. You know things that other people do not. Which, in my opinion, is a great sign of a detective."

I sighed and fell back onto the bed. My eyes closed as the sweat cooled on my skin. Silently, I replayed all the information Holmes had found from the newspapers a few days before, trying to be of some use to him and myself. If I could just get things straight, I may actually be able to help him on this case.

There had been three murders near the square 'Place de le Bastille' in Paris. That's where our hotel was. Each one was described as having a book placed next to the body. The books were turned open to a specific page. The page it was turned to described a way of being killed in the exact way the victims were.

Victim I. _Jean Pierre-Lavant_. Killed in his home. Book lying next to him; "Jane Eyre". Way of death? Falling off the top of a building, just like Bertha Rochester. Age? Twenty two. Family? None.

Victim II. _Herve Rouve_. Killed in his office. Book lying next to him; "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde". Way of death? Gun shot, just like Jekyll. Age? Thirty seven. Family? Wife and two daughters.

Victim III. _Gaspard Dussollier_. Killed in his study. Book lying next to him; "Les Miserables". Way of death? Stabbed, just like the French soldiers. Age? Twenty nine. Family? Fiancée.

The books were what made it particularly interesting. No one knew who the murderer was, and no one had any lead. Obviously mental, whoever it was.

So, that's how I landed up in the hotel room with Holmes. Investigation. We were staying a very magnificent place that, of course, I wasn't paying for. I was shocked by the size and elegance of my room, but made no note of asking how much it was. I felt horribly embarrassed about having little money on me and even if I had all the money I owned, I was sure it couldn't even afford me a night in the hotel. Eventually, I would have to repay him. I was already working on something. When I saw the hotel room, I knew I would have to repay him even faster.

"Holmes," I said as I climbed off the bed. "How exactly are you going to look into these killings without permission?" He glanced up towards me with a serious expression and said nothing. "Of course," I laughed nervously. "You'll just… do it?"

"It's obvious that it's another Englishman, so I suppose just speaking to them in my native tongue is enough for them to consider letting me into the homes. English speakers have been fleeing this part of France for quite some time now, and if I say I have insight, they'll no doubt be curious." He drummed his fingers against the wooden bed frame as his eyes glazed over the empty Parisian streets below us. They seemed dark and dreary, just like London. "They also may already know who I am."

"What makes you think it's an Englishman?" I felt bad asking such questions when he was so certain about them to begin with. He would surely get tired of me soon, but for now, I figured I should ask as many questions as I could, _while _I could.

Holmes was making his way towards the door as he answered. "The books the murderer has chosen. Very interesting… very English. Perhaps not Les Miserables, but that was no doubt a success. It could also be a cover up." He couldn't help resist a knowing grin in relation to his next comment. "Only an Englishman would become so obsessive and detailed about a murder."

I raised my brows at the interesting notion, but said nothing in response. The past few cases had certainly been… confusing, to say the least. Perhaps British men did get a bit more creative with their killings. That wasn't exactly comforting.

The wheels in his mind were clicking as mine were slowing rusting away. He knew so much already by reading newspapers. I had no idea what any of this was about. Hell, he probably already knew who the murderer was and was just making the searching part interesting. _Okay, Renadale, _I grumbled to myself. _Don't be that ridiculous_ I watched as his fingers laced themselves around the hotel room doorknob._._ "Are we going out?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

"Yes." He smirked. "Try not to look like a detective, and put on that lovely smile of yours."

~.~.~.~.~

We were riding in a carriage to the first crime scene; Jean Pierre-Lavant's humble abode. I couldn't help but notice how much cleaner the streets of Paris were in comparison to London. I liked the rustic nature of my city, but a breath of fresh air was no doubt agreeable. As my eyes scanned the pages of my book, I listened to the chatter of French noblemen coming through the opened window.

"What is it that you're reading?" Holmes muttered. His elbow was rested against the window sill as his fist was digging into his cheek. He was clearly bored, and probably agitated that I was too entranced in my reading to make note of his presence.

"Oh, this?" I mumbled, unable to peel my eyes away from the page. "Just… something…" I was going to finish my sentence, but I was much too distracted with the words. I smiled to myself, enjoying the rich language that I held in my hands. However, as I was getting into the art of flower caretaking, I felt the book get peeled away from my fingers. "Give that back," I mumbled as I tried to snatch it back from Holmes.

"'The Art of Domestic Horticulture'," Holmes read the title clearly. His eyes glanced lower down the cover towards the author. "Professor James Moriarty... The name rings a bell." I grabbed the book quickly and flipped back to my page. "Someone is incredibly impressed with the Professor, is that it?"

"Yes," I muttered. "He's a genius. Don't make any assumptions until you've read his work."

Holmes was quiet for a while and I found myself sinking back into the narrative of Moriarty. He was smart on a scientific level, and even on a domestic one. What a man! My father would have no doubt been a fan. Perhaps that was what attracted me to his work, but overall, he was impressive. I wished that I could attend one of his lectures some day, though my very sex would probably stop me from that. He was an Oxford man. I was… a maid. The thought of stealing one of Holmes's many costumes passed briefly through my mind. _Well, it certainly isn't out of the question._

"May I?" Holmes asked, distracting me once again.

I stared at him with confusion from behind the cover. "May you…?"

"Read one of his books," he clarified. "I'm assuming you have been carrying others with you."

I sighed and tucked my book inside my breast pocket. I wasn't sure how I thought I would be able to read with Holmes beside me in the first place. "I do have one, which I will gladly let you borrow. However, if you have negative things to say about his work, then I will have to ignore you for the time remaining."

He smiled bemusedly. "I shall keep my lips closed."

"Good luck with that," I freed a smile.

In all honesty, I didn't want Holmes to read his work. I knew that he would be jealous; though I'm sure he would claim that word was not part of his vocabulary. I wasn't kidding when I said he was a genius. The man was literally a top intellectual, and I didn't want Holmes to say negative things about him when the truth was right there in ink.

I stared at Holmes for a moment as his gaze redirected itself towards the outside. Staring into the crevices of his face somehow reminded me of his previous mentioning. Mycroft Holmes. A brother! How did I never even ask such a thing? What were his parents like? Oh, lord. What if his parents were still alive? I couldn't imagine what they would be like. I wondered if his brother acted similarly to him. What did he look like? Was he much older? Or, perhaps much younger? I made a mental note to ask a more convenient time.

My thoughts didn't have time to progress too much. The carriage was taking us down a narrow alley, but it stopped short before going further. Holmes and I turned our heads to the door as the coachman pulled it open. "The street is too slim for the horse to go down," he said in perfect English. "I must stop here." He gestured for us to leave as he held the door open politely. As I climbed down, his aged hand helped me off.

"Thank you," I smiled before he rode off into the cobblestone streets. "The French are much nicer than what some people have claimed." Holmes stared at me with amusement. "What?" I laughed. "Do you not agree?"

"It's not that I disagree," he explained as we headed down the alley. "It's just that I know the truth."

"Oh, yes? You must be an expert. What other languages do you speak?"

"German, Ital-"

"Stop there. I know what you think of the French, but what of the Germans?"

"Polite, but always looking for ways to deteriorate your status."

I couldn't help but laugh aloud. "Do you hold contempt for all men?"

Holmes glanced at me through the corner of his eye, but not without a playful gleam. "No," he said, trying to suppress a smile. "It's not a man himself that is the issue. It is the act of when groups of men come together and convince themselves that they can act a certain way because of their culture."

"That is an interesting point. I shall have to remember that." He smiled at me again, causing my breath to halt for just a moment. The Paris romance was getting to my head.

My eyes scanned the grey buildings on both sides of me. The moriah driver was right; the road was far too narrow for us to ride down. The houses were all attached and bordering us on our left and right. They were very elegant with their grey exteriors and French delicacies such as the Fleur-de-lis carved above the windows. They all looked the same, but only one was of much importance. Holmes stopped his path as we reached our destination. I glanced up at the doorframe as a lingering symbol drew my attention.

"This is the place," Holmes muttered, heading up the stairs. He pulled out a key from his pocket and slipped it easily into the lock. The door slid open with an eerie afternoon creak. My feet stayed glued to where I was, as my eyes remained upon the etching. He walked inside, but noticed that I had not followed. "Miss Adkins?" He inquired towards me from the doorway.

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "This just… grabbed my attention."

Holmes made his way to my side as we stared up at the symbols carved in to the wooded door frame. There was a perfect square, followed by a short line, then an eight pointed star, and finally a circle with a line in the middle. It was small, but certainly noticeable. "These symbols are only on his door. They aren't on anyone else's." I stepped a bit closer, narrowing my eyes for a better look. "They're new too; you can tell by the cleanliness of the wood cuts. No dirt, no nothing."

Holmes sharpened his gaze as well. "Pierre-Lavant was a politician. Perhaps it had something to do with his status, or a group he was a member of. Blackwood was in tune with politics and no doubt with a secret society."

That was true. Many politicians were acquainted with secret organizations. Yet, why were these symbols so obvious? What sort of group was this? I shook my head and shrugged off the discomfort I was beginning to feel. "Yes, most likely," My voice was grave. "We should just go inside and see what we can find."

After inspecting the rather small, but expensive downstairs area and finding no other entrances besides the front door and windows, which were perfectly intact, it was decided that the murderer simply had a key. There were no other ways to get inside.

"They said he jumped off of his roof. He must have been ordered or pushed," I said as I glanced at the books on his shelves. My stomach churned as I saw 'Jane Eyre' in French. The book that marked his death. "There are no ladders to the roof like my home, so the man must have lead him up through his own home."

My notes made me feel a bit more confident, but I gained no response. I stared at Holmes as he ran his fingertips along the edge of the window sill. I could see his reflection in the glass and watched him slowly shut his eyes. Something was going on in that head of his, but I wished he would tell me I was right. I wished he would tell me something. The quiet was encircling us, and wondered if perhaps he missed Watson. Was my voice annoying and obviously disappointing? The confidence that lingered in my heart a few moments ago was dwindling.

"Holmes," I whispered, not wishing to startle him.

"Hm?" He jumped and turned around. "I apologize, Miss Adkins. I was lost in thought."

I offered him a small smile, though it was tough. "Don't apologize for that. I think that is when you're at your best." If I wasn't so tired from boxing training, I could have sworn his cheeks turned a darker shade of red. "I'm not sure if you heard me, but I…" My head dropped. It wasn't worth it. "It doesn't matter. At any rate, we should perhaps figure out what kind of life he led. We may find someone who had a key to the house. It could give us a strong lead."

"He had no family," Holmes sighed.

"The papers said that, yes?" Holmes had informed of that two days ago.

"Yes, but the police who gave me the keys also told me."

I blinked as I watched Holmes swing a chain of skinny keys around his finger. My stomach flipped over at the clanking noise. How did I even miss that? I hadn't even noticed he had just walked right inside! The symbols were far too distracting. Or, my observation skills were really faltering. "When did you get those?"

"Yesterday, before you awoke. I headed down to the station." He casually tucked the keys into his pocket. "I also have the keys for the other two crime scenes."

"You're just… ahead of the game, aren't you?" Somewhere inside of me, I was once again beginning to feel unneeded. Why was I with him anyway? Because he wanted company? All I had done so far was learn how to fight. But, I hadn't even learned how to fight correctly. Oh, what use was I? Where was Watson when you needed him? I sighed and wished he would just burst through the door of my hotel room with Gladstone in one hand and a gun in the other. "No need to fret anymore! The doctor is in!" I imagined him saying. But, I shook my head and forgot about it. That was obviously not going to happen.

"Now," Holmes's voice called me back to reality. "We must figure out more about this Pierre-Lavant, of that you are correct." Holmes crossed the living room and entered an empty study. I leaned against the doorway and watched him flip through some drawers. "No personal letters… All government documents and suggestions." As he continued to rummage through the papers, I made my way towards a small bureau near the window. I slid open the top where men's socks were piled upon one another.

I winced and quickly slammed the door shut. Those were his personal belongs, and there I was, a twenty-something British girl, rummaging about them like they were nothing. But, surely if he had to keep personal letters somewhere, they would be private? A man may not have a family, but there could always be someone special in his life. A best friend. A girl, maybe. Or maybe… two.

I knew that from personal experience.

With a stiff upper lip, I slowly pulled open the drawer once again. Reaching my arm down, I gently brushed away some of the socks and stared down at the wooden bottom. _Please make this worthwhile, _I thought to myself. Shutting my eyes so I didn't have to watch myself, I felt around beneath the clothing to see if there was anything; anything at all.

Then I felt it.

The cool touch of…

Paper?

"Paper!" I exclaimed as I cracked open my eyes. I snatched it from the drawer and quickly slammed it shut. I hoped I never had to open it again. "And not just any paper," I whispered to myself. "Letters."

"Letters?" I heard Holmes perk up behind me. "What are you going on about?"

I didn't answer him. I couldn't. I was too distracted by the words on the page. "It's about his political status," I said as I felt Holmes make his way beside me. "It says here that he was cut loose from his political bonds early, for dealing with other memberships. It clearly states 'you know which ones needn't be mentioned'." Something else was incredibly discerning about the letter. "It's in English. This letter was sent from England."

"This man is not the murderer," Holmes said, snatching the letter. "It was sent a day before the man died." His brown eyes scanned the paper manically. "Whoever killed him was working for whoever wrote this. Those symbols outside must be some mark… a mark of disapproval."

"It isn't signed," I sighed. Everything had to be more difficult. "It must have been some sort of political killing, right? I mean, if the killing and the letter are connected."

Holmes said nothing, but tucked the letter into his pocket. "Only one person to ask," he whispered beneath his breath. He was standing close enough for me to hear it, but I don't think it was intentional. He headed straight back towards the front entrance, but I stood where I was.

Who were we off to see now?

~.~.~.~.~

"_Holmes… Holmes, go… away." _

"_Stop," Holmes grunted with annoyance. His fingers brushed back my hair and tied them into a ribbon he collected from my suitcase. "You're sick. There's no need for you to be independent at this precise moment."_

"_I'm not being independent," I groaned as I laid my seasick head back down on the pillow. "I'm trying to be helpful." _

_I heard him sigh heavily. My eyes had been shut for ages, but I could sense the aggravation crossing over his face. "You're not being helpful. If you wish to be helpful, let me aid you in your illness." I said nothing, but as the ship continued to sway back and forth, my stomach refused to cooperate. "You need water. You're breaking out into a sweat and need hydration."_

_My cot creaked and I knew he was standing up. I quickly reached out my arm, hoping I would grab him without having to open my eyes. I felt his cold skin in my warm hand. "Don't," I sighed as my head rolled to the side. "I don't want it."_

"_You may not want it, but you need it." I shook my head firmly. "If I were Watson, you would listen. Imagine me as Watson."_

"_That's…impossible," I murmured, tightening my fingers around his wrist as much as I could. _

_I heard him cough, followed by silence. After a minute, he spoke, but in a much more serious and high pitched tone. "Renadale, this is Watson speaking…" I felt a smile instantly crack out onto my face. He sounded nothing like him. He sounded like a blubbering old man. "I am insisting that you let me fetch you some water and lighter blankets."_

"_You're not very convincing," I whispered. _

"_At least you're smiling," Holmes mumbled sincerely. "That's a good sign." _

"_Just sit next to me." My weak fingers let his wrist loose. My forehead was getting hotter and my stomach churned and yelled at the water beneath the ship. _Just stop rocking! Stop for a second, please! _Nothing happened and I remained in discomfort. "If you sit next to me, I will fall asleep and forget about the water."_

_There was another creak and I knew he had sat down. "Thank you," I whispered pathetically. I was like a child, I knew that. Unfortunately, my body had no option._

"_You've never left England, have you?"_

_I knew it wasn't a question. He already knew the answer. Gently, he wrapped his cold fingers in mine. The icy touch was comforting to my hot skin. Without a word, I gripped his fingers tighter. I could feel his press themselves against mine. Though I was sick, I was so happy. I was so happy that I wasn't alone._

"_I'm sorry," I mumbled before drifting off into sleep. Sorry for being sick. Sorry for not warning you ahead of time. Sorry you had to be with me instead of Watson. _

_Sorry I couldn't find another other comfort but you. _


	2. A Tarnished Reputation

**Here is the next chapter. (: A little gift for Valentine's Day, I suppose. I leave for England this Wednesday, and of course will be going to London. If you're ever there, the Sherlock museum/221B Baker Street is magnificent. I'll certainly be going there… again. Can't miss that one, no matter how many times you go! **

**Schnitzel- Nice to see you again! (: I too am very excited to add her into the fun… particularly the death scene. That will certainly challenge my emotional writing. x_x**

**katiekat54- I'm really glad you like it. (: That means a lot to me! It's for readers like you that I keep it going! (And my love for Sherly, of course!)**

**Lillibella- What a lovely review! Thank you for writing it, it made me giddy and excited. I love your reviews.**

**- Oh, yes. You can expect Dr. Watson back very shortly. (; I'm also glad you caught onto the Moriaty thing, haha! I thought it would certainly be an interesting twist!**

**And to the rest, please continue to review. You don't know how much I love waking up, checking my computer and seeing your lovely avatars. :D **

**~Mistro~**

**Sherlock quote of the chapter: ****Professor Moriarty****. "People have an innate desire for conflict. So what you are fighting is not me, but rather mankind. War, on an industrial scale, is inevitable. I'm just supplying the bullets and bandages."**

**~.~.~.~.~**

"Why are we stopping here?"

I craned my neck further towards the window to make sure I was seeing correctly. Across the street was a cozy looking shop. The crumbling white paint made it hardly stick out from the surrounding businesses. Its shingles were aged and faded, but the glittering gold sign was unmistakable. "_Rubans et robes_.…" I muttered in dreadful French. "Doesn't that mean-"

"Ribbons and dresses." Holmes patted me firmly on the back in confirmation. "Well done. Your French is improving. First inference, then boxing, and now French… Miss Adkins, you're becoming quite the well-rounded lady."

My shoulders dropped with awareness of what I was being asked to do. "I can't go in there. You know very well I don't speak French."

"And you…" Holmes pointed at me with his bowler. "…know very well that I am not female." I couldn't help but be distracted by his hat. He hadn't had it when we came to France and I wondered whose head he took it from.

"And _you_ know that I am not entirely grand at these… lady things."

"Social things," he corrected me.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I was trying to avoid admitting that. "Well, what am I going to say anyway? I don't speak French, and you never told me what I need-"

"I need yarn; red yarn. S'il vous plait!" I felt a firm shove on my shoulder that nearly sent me crashing into the door. My Moriarty book tumbled out from my pocket as boot found its way onto the cover accidentally. I picked it up quickly, brushing the mud and dirt away. Holmes winced as I shot him an icy glare. "I'm apologetic." His mouth was trying to resist a smile. "That was a bit harsher than I intended."

As I kicked the door with my heel, I decided that I would probably be safer outside than in. I made sure to send Holmes a look of warning. "You owe me," I mouthed after shutting the door. His brows shot upwards with hilarity, and he merely nodded.

On the contrary; I actually owed him a lot more than he did me.

My feet drug me towards the green wooden door, luring me inside the frilly store. The second I stepped up the stairs, each one of my boots clomping ominously, I inhaled a wave of seductive, Parisian perfume. My stomach twisted as it reminded me of the one person who always held that scent.

Miss Irene Adler.

My hand froze as I reached to grab the handle. The odor was momentarily haunting me and I retracted my hand to allow myself a second to think. I was certain Holmes was watching, but I knew he wouldn't come out of the carriage.

He knew this store. He and Irene had probably been there before. Was she there now? Was that who we were going to see? No, no, she wasn't in the shop. He wouldn't make _me _do his grand entrance for the lovely American. He wasn't just afraid of going in because it was for women. That was of little importance to him. It was about _her_. The mere smell of the place would send his Irene-sensitive heart into a tizzy.

I didn't blame him. I alone was enchanted by the aroma and somehow longed for Adler's confusing personality to be back into my life. She somehow made sense being in the picture, despite the irony of me never understanding her intentions.

_Oh, man up Adkins. Just hurry up and get the yarn. _Squaring my shoulders back, I stepped inside of the crowded, but elegant little shop. "Bonjour," a fair young girl behind the counter said. She set down the fabric she was cutting and made her way out from the rococo counter to greet me. Suddenly nervous, my first instinct was to raise a hand of caution.

"Before you say anything else, I just want you to know that I won't understand a word of it." Her mouse-like jade eyes darted across my face with worry. I hoped I hadn't startled her, though I don't think I would have minded her kicking me out. Watching Holmes buy his own thread would be punishment enough for shoving me.

Why did he need thread anyway?

"I'm sorry." I laughed, speaking a bit slower. "That was rude of me. I would like some red yarn, please." The girl blinked at me with discomfort and offered a small squeak. Surprisingly, I could understand it. _I don't understand anything you're saying! _it proclaimed.

With a heavy sigh, I stepped around her and over to the windows across the room. A nice little table with glass containers seemed to be holding numerous amounts of thread. _If I just grabbed the color and handed her the money, perhaps I can get out of here as soon as possible._ "Here," I said as my eye caught the scarlet string. "I'll take the entire spool."

She gently took it from my hands as her porcelain face cracked a toothy grin. Business was a language she understood. After handing her the few coins I had in my pocket, I mumbled, "Merci" and fled from the room.

My feet hurried me back over the stagecoach as I dodged the elite men and women also crossing the road. "Here," I said as I entered. I tossed the yarn into his lap and climbed into the seat opposite. The carriage was whipped back into motion towards, heading towards our suave hotel. Whatever the thread was for, apparently it was needed in our elegant rooms.

Holmes stared as he tossed the spool back and forth in his hands. "Just ask."

"Ask…"

"Why I have a crimson spool juggling between my fingers."

"Alright… Why do you have a crimson spool?" I rested my head back against the velvety cushion. "Or rather, should I take a stab in the dark as to why you made me look like a fool in that store, all for the sake of fabric?"

A roguish look passed through Holmes's eyes. "That one. I like the sound of it."

Many outlandish reasons came into my head. Knitting. Remembering rings. Ship it back to England because French thread was impeccable. I decided to go with my less outlandish thoughts. "Perhaps you need the thread to sew something; a fixture on a damaged cravat, perhaps. I've seen you in a red one before and maybe you're considering taking me out for dinner and a show." The thought simply slipped right off my tongue. Somewhere in my hidden conscience, I must have sought after that romantic evening. Saying it aloud did sound rather appealing… But being in a moriah with Holmes was enough to get my heart racing. Going on a date would probably kill me. I let the thought secretly linger in the back of my mind. "Or maybe you need it for something in the far future. You might have the rest of the case solved and the red yarn would be needed in week's time."

Holmes spat out a cutting laugh. "I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

"Highly debatable." _You're as good as they come._ "Here's my final suggestion. This one is a bit outlandish, so hold onto your hat." _Even though it's probably not your hat. _"You sent me into that shop because you couldn't dare to go in there yourself. The scent of luxurious oil perfume from Paris would mock you for the rest of the day… maybe even the week. Your thoughts would be laced with thick lipstick and hair filled with roses; those of Irene Adler. It was there that she would drag you to buy her perfume. Or, perhaps she raved on about the store on one of your many adventures." My breath was getting short, but I was in no position to stop. "You couldn't possibly stand the idea of imaging her and feeling hurt all over again. So you sent me; the only person you could, because you thought it wouldn't hurt for me to be reminded."

My voice trailed off until it was practically nothing. I had said 'thought' in the last sentence, because 'knew' would not have been correct. Now that I had dumped out my feelings and laid them there for all to see, I couldn't help but feel sick. After my rambling, I avoided eye contact with Holmes as I felt the blush in my cheeks swim towards my collarbone.

"I need red yarn for a new tracking method." Holmes's voice was soft, but heavily laced with the deepness of a bothered soul. "Newspapers, letters, telegrams… all to be connected at various points… with this." He slowly raised the yarn with his thumb and his pointer finger. "Red yarn."

My head dropped as my eyes stared at my fiddling hands in my lap. "Right." I shook my head with embarrassment. "Of course that's why." A disappointed scoff escaped my lips. _Never cease to be foolish. That is a game you shall always win. _I prayed in the back of my mind for the carriage to stop as soon as possible. I wanted to run up to my hotel room, bury my face into the unworldly soft pillows, and shout until my throat hurt. That way, I could never utter a single word again.

"It's of little importance. Pas un problème. Take this."

I was a bit afraid to look up at the sound of his voice, but curiosity got the better of me. In his outstretched hands, Holmes held his bowler hat towards me. His fingers were loose and he was clearly ready to pass it on. My eyes blinked once or twice. That was the only motion I made for quite some time. "The intention of me holding it out was for you to take it."

I plucked it from his fingers like it was some sort of disease. "Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because you need it."

I flipped it back and forth between my hands. "Why exactly do I need this?"

"So you can wear it."

"Oh. Really?"

He nodded.

"You know that was sarcasm, right?"

"Couldn't have missed it."

I snuggled the hat on my head, my curls lifting it upwards. With a firm push, I managed to keep it in its rightful place. "Well?" I smirked. The interesting situation allowed me to forget about the previously uncomfortable one. "How does it look?" Holmes turned his head to the side, inspecting me in my attire. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it on a second thought. Instead, he replaced it with a smile. Something fluttered in my stomach. I guess it didn't look too bad. "What am I going to need this for?"

"Tell me, Miss Adkins… How attached are you to wearing dresses?"

My face instantly felt hot. Trousers were certainly not uncomfortable… and dressing up in men's fashion was undoubtedly simpler and quicker. "I'm not too attached," I admitted sheepishly. "What's the reasoning behind it?"

"Oh, nothing." Holmes casually drummed his fingers across his knee.

I eyed him down inquisitively from my seat. "You're being awfully distrustful today. First, you mention going to see someone, which you haven't answered by the way, and then you give me this stolen hat. What kind of game are you playing, Mister Holmes?"

"A simple one," he said as the carriage pulled to a stop. Before he opened the door, he leaned forward a bit, adding onto the mysterious aura. "I can answer your questions in three simple words. Temps nous dira." He firmly shoved open the door and hoped out onto the Hotel's street without a care in the world.

I frowned pathetically, not knowing what the secret message was. Thankfully, the coachman whispered it to me as I was heading inside. "Time will tell."

I rolled my eyes. Nothing I wasn't already used to.

~.~.~.~.~

"Oh…" I groaned, placing a sweaty hand to my forehead. "Please work, please work!" My voice was hushed as I fidgeted with the gun in my hands. "You stupid piece of machinery…" Grumbling, I once again began to dismantle the pistol on my bed. Its shiny exterior didn't seem to fit well with my ivory sheets, but my room was the only place I could do my project without Holmes noticing.

I was working on a gift for Sherlock. I had been debating getting him one for quite some time, and so many ideas had come rushing to my head. A pipe cleaner? A floor sweeper? His own dog? All of them were instantly tossed out of the window the second they appeared. And then I remembered something he had been wanting for a long time. It was something that even_ he_ could not get.

A device to silence the shooting of a gun.

And olives.

The only issue was, after I was firmly settled on the idea, the process became much more difficult than I imagined. At least, the gun part. When I finished (_if_ I finished) I would deliver the gift as a late birthday gift, though it was really a thank you for many reasons. Watson had informed me his birthday was January 6th, and I cursed myself for realizing too late.

Hopefully, my gun-shooting-silencer would make both of us satisfied. Him, because he had it, and me because I gave it to him. Then again, there was always the daunting thought that he may hate it because he was not the one who exposed it.

That was a risk I was willing to take.

I had made sure when I entered the hotel to copy the shapes exactly as I had seen them. Square, line, star, crossed circle. I made two copies; one for Sherlock and one for me. All detectives were prepared. I made a mental note to investigate further on the symbols. I knew each symbol's individual meaning, but together…

_Knock. Knock. Knock_

Realizing that the knocking on my door was far too formal, I knew it couldn't have possibly been Holmes. My heart nearly leaped from my chest as I firmly pushed the firearm beneath my pillow. "Come in!" I shouted as I crawled off the bed. My fingers brushed away any dirt from my skirt. Like a lady, I folded my hands politely at my waist.

A servant boy entered, carrying a silver tray towards me. "For you, Madame." He tipped his golden hat in respect as I plucked the envelopes from the platter.

"Thank you," I called out to him as he exited the room. I stared down at the paper in my hands, recognizing the post immediately. They were telegrams from London. I had written one to Watson recently, inquiring as to how he was and mentioning how much we missed him. I had considered writing one to my mother, but I received one from her nearly every day and decided that once a week would be adequate. Hurriedly, I ripped them open and stared at the fancy scrawl.

_Dear Renadale,_

_Your relationship with Mister Holmes makes me nervous. Please don't do anything I wouldn't do. Even though you're in Paris. Don't get too much sun. Try the wine near the tower. I hear it's lovely. Still, don't do anything I wouldn't._

_Your loving mother_

I rolled my eyes. If my mother was my age and in Paris, I wouldn't even want to imagine all of the things she would do. I would certainly be doing none of them. Amused, I tossed it on the bed before starting the next.

_Rena,_

_I hope everything is in working order. The case has made its way to London already. It seems more perplexing than we had originally thought. I did manage to do some research on the victims. They were all politicians working closely with England. Something about strengthening the weapon supply in European countries. They were all large in the practice of military and militias. Apparently when the men traveled to England they would stay on holiday in places like Brighton or Chichester. Holmes may be interested in going there, as his brother owns an estate nearby. _

My heart race quickened. I think I discovered who we were going to see. I forced myself to think about that later and continue on with the letter.

_I worry about you. Both of you. Reply back when you can. When you get back, Mary has an important question for you. Come back in one piece, please. I know with him that is an arduous task. Safe journeys._

_Your friend,_

_Dr. John Watson_

_Let Holmes know that Gladstone is ill and I blame it from those plants he fed him before he left. He should know that it is not his dog. Perhaps you can remind him of that. _

"It's honestly both of our dog."

With a shriek, I tossed the letter in the air and fumbled to catch it as it floated down. My heart was already racing and Holmes's sudden appearance certainly didn't help. "How did you get in here?" My fingers clutched the note tightly to my chest.

"Not significant," Holmes muttered as he dropped himself into an ornately stitched chair. "What's important is that he never once bothered to send me a telegram asking how I was."

I smiled softly. When Holmes was sensitive, I found him quite endearing. "I'm not sure if that's actually what's important. What's vital is that your brother lives near where the men used to go." Holmes's eyes darted towards my face before redirecting themselves towards the window. He picked idly at his nails, while meanwhile wearing a tense expression. "That's who we're meeting, isn't it?"

"It's not confirmed." He didn't blink, but continued his nervous habit. "I must send a telegram and ask if we can stay at his country home. It's in the vicinity of Lewes and Newport."

There was that feeling. That feeling that everything you had eaten today was about to return to the place where it started. I felt my head beginning to spin and I weakly placed my shaking fingers over my mouth. Lewes. That was where… he… lived.

"Are you alright?" Holmes's brows came together in concern. He was about to stand up, but I raised my hand to stop him. Calmly, I took a deep breath. The incident never happened. I hadn't thought of him. I hadn't thought of anything.

I recomposed myself and cracked a curious grin, which was obviously strained. "Why would you need to ask?" Mind you, I had no brothers and sisters, but I hardly saw why he would reject. After all, Holmes had praised him high and low when we last brought him up. And on that note, I was just itching to meet the _other Holmes_. No matter where he made his residence.

Warily, Holmes's eyes fell upon me. They started at my boots and slowly made their way up to my hairline. I felt myself feeling sicker under his watchful gaze. I knew I probably looked ill a few moments ago, but did I look _that_ bad? "You shall certainly be the problem."

My body sunk until I felt myself sitting against the bed. "That was rather rude." I felt a bit stung. A lot of feelings were floating in my head and none of them very positive. Holmes's declaration certainly wasn't helping.

"I don't mean for me," Holmes sighed. He started to fidget in his chair until finally his restlessness urged him to stand. "I meant for him. He's not used to… women. He's not very good at acting properly around them. He's absolutely as gentlemanly as they come; it's just that he never gets a good practice."

"View it as practice, then."

A deeper shade of pink passed through Holmes's scruffy cheeks. "He will certainly ask a lot of questions. Not just about you and the case, but about…" He stopped himself both in words and pacing.

"About what?"

Running his hands through his dark locks, Holmes let out a heavy sigh. "About two people." At first, I thought I was following things, but the conversation was becoming more baffling the more we talked it out. I sat dumbfounded and waited for a better answer. "He will ask about the connection between a chap and lady who happen to be lingering on his homestead, in close camaraderie-"

"Are you talking about us?"

"Yes. 'Us'. That is the word I'm looking for."

I bit my bottom lip to hold back a smile. Holmes was afraid of taking about _us_. That normally might have bothered a gal, but I didn't find any fault with it. It's not like I wanted to talk about kissing him to my mother. She had no idea. About anything.

It was perfect that way.

She knew that I was an 'honorary detective'. At least, that's how Holmes had put it when she demanded he come for dinner one night.

"You've got to stop worrying." I climbed off of the bed. My hand landed softly upon his shoulder where it was met with a slight twitch. He kept his back towards me, but his breathing was unsteady. "He won't ask anything. How would he know, anyway?"

Holmes slowly turned his head to meet my eyes. They held a mocking shine. "He's my brother."

"Then just tell him that there's not nothing. Tell him that there is nothing whatsoever going on between us, and that I was just some intellect you happened to stumble upon." I offered a reassuring smile along with my joke. In reality, my heart twisted at the word 'nothing'.

There was definitely something. At least, for me there was. Ever since I admitted it to myself, I couldn't stop questioning the thought of… that four letter word. Of course, I would never admit it to him. I hadn't even convinced myself yet.

"You're right, Miss Adkins." _Back to formality._ "I was looking too much into things. I should return to my room and get my mind refocused on the case. My yarn and newspaper idea is working much more superbly than I had initially thought. Perhaps I'll use Watson's old office to continue this practice in the future…" He was mumbling all of this as he made his way towards the door. Soon enough, his striped waistcoat had disappeared from my view. I was alone was again to continue with my present.

Just as I reached beneath my pillow to grab the gun, the sound of my door opening filled my ears. I shrieked and once again shoved the weapon in its hiding spot. Holmes's torso was creeping through the open door. With an air of nonchalance, he tossed a pile of clothing onto my floor. "And put those on. Quickly. Use the trimming to tie your hair up. Remove your makeup. Just… look like a gentleman." And with that, the rose-painted door was back to being shut.

I stared at the heap of men's clothing lying upon the tapestry rug. There were trousers, suspenders, undergarments, socks, large black shoes, a mustard colored shirt, a waistcoat, a necktie and an oversized frock coat. I noticed without touching them that they were all a size too large. Surely it was to hide my curves. I shook my head in disbelief. There was a question forming in my head that I had asked myself many times.

What mess was I getting myself into now?


	3. Paper For Your Thoughts?

**Hello everyone! Thank you for all of the comments. I know this story is a bit slow starting out, but things will pick up very soon. I appreciate the feedback you're giving me. It seems so many of you want a love scene… Haha! Was Valentine's Day getting to your heads? Well, I'll tell you one thing… Not yet. It's in my head, but it's sort of at a precise moment. XD Hopefully this doesn't upset you guys so much that you leave. It certainly doesn't mean there won't be ROMANCE! (I imagined that in an exaggerated French accent.) **

**Also, if any of you were wondering… I don't speak French. XD **

**kaflute14: WELCOME! :D I'm glad you're a new reader. Thanks for the review. Hope to see much more in the future!**

**DreamingOutLoud: I understand the OCD thing. I've been much better with it, and have even gone back and edited the first story. Sometimes, I read so fast that I don't notice. I know my second one is a bomb, and I will be editing that some time… when I'm not lazy. (: Thanks for the review, though! Haha!**

**Lillibella: Diogenes Club… Ohmygosh. So tempting…**

**PLEASE REVIEW IT MEANS A LOT! I LOVE YOU ALL!**

**Hopefully that didn't creep you guys out. XD Please don't leave.**

**-Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

Normally, the thought of being free from skirts, corsets and stockings excited me. However, my legs were itching unbearably in the faded, brown trousers. As I ran my hand along the seams, I couldn't help but wonder whose clothes were bothering me so much.

The thought was irrelevant and I rose from my chair to double-check myself in the mirror. My makeup had vanished from sight, and my hair was neatly pinned inside a cap. I tugged it a bit more firmly over my ears. The last thing I wanted was my curls tumbling out. I looked young enough, and my voice didn't need too much disguise.

The longer I stared at myself, the harder it was for my face not to twist into something unpleasant. I had to hand it to myself. I looked like a boy. However, I knew that Sherlock wouldn't have made me dress that way for no reason. Whatever we were doing, it had to be worth it.

Truth be told, I rather liked the outfit. Despite its irritable fabric, it was simple and would grant me little attention. I would go unnoticed; something I find strangely comforting.

I let my eyelids redirect themselves towards my shoes. My heels clicked together in synchronism with the clock as I waited for Holmes.

I seemed to do that a lot.

"Oh, good." A voice rang out behind me, just as my thoughts were beginning to take a new direction. I turned to see Holmes gently closing the door behind him. I had blown my candles out shortly before and the setting sun casted a captivating glow around the room. It would have been somewhat romantic, if I wasn't dressed as a pauper. "You look…"

"Manly?"

"A bit boyish, but somehow it doesn't detract from your charisma." I hoped the blush running towards my cheeks was hidden by the pink sky. He had an odd way of complimenting, but it was certainly my favorite. "And yet, it works. That outfit will certainly bring us success."

I tugged the sleeves of my coat further towards my wrist. "I'm not sure if I could be considered a lady to begin with, but I'm not quite used to male clothing yet. Whose garments are these, anyway?"

A bemused look was my only response. It was obvious that he expected me to know the answer. Therefore, the answer was obvious in itself. They were his. Of course they were.

Suddenly, I stopped touching the jacket and placed my arms firmly down at my side. Maybe I would have been better off _not_ knowing. Holmes didn't seem to notice, and jumped back into business as I tried to rein my girlish nerves. "You will be walking to our destination. On the other hand, I will be taking the coach. A pauper can't be seen in a carriage, particularly not in this part of Paris. We'll meet behind the offices in the alley way marked; '_Roi_', when we're finished." I made no response as I tried to take his rapid words in. "Can you remember that?"

The French was obviously unimportant, as I wouldn't remember it either way, but the offices were what pricked at my mind. "What offices? Where exactly _am_ I going?" I tried to put the pieces together in my head. We had seen Lavant's home, but not… "Rouve," My tone dropped to one of dilemma. "I'm going to his office, aren't I?"

"Precisely," Holmes smiled, despite my obvious disapproval.

"I suddenly feel sea-sick…"

"You needn't worry. No one will think twice of you being there. Rouve never ventured outside during work hours, but he always read the papers. He had a private newsboy bring them into his office daily." Somehow none of this was making me feel better. "And, it's evening, and not many people will be there anyway."

"Yes, but he's…_deceased_." The word 'death' still made me feel lightheaded. "Won't they be slightly suspicious to see me there?"

"Many other men fancied the idea of a clandestine paperboy. You'll blend in. No one will think twice of you." The firmness in his voice was consoling. Now, it was what I had to look for that made things complicated. "If anything goes wrong, I will be right behind you." I glanced up and down his fancy attire, confused as to how he would help. "Two birds with one stone," he smiled. "I'll be going to Dussollier's study."

"And I'm supposed to be looking for…"

"The symbols in which we saw earlier at Lavant's, along with a letter from England. It will possibly express the same distaste for an unknown political membership."

"_You know which one needn't be mentioned._" My own voice sent the feeling of spiders crawling down my back. Unfortunately, _we_ didn't know which one.

I wondered bitterly why I had gotten the difficult assignment. I thought it was practice for the weaker detective, but then I realized with appreciation that it was for my security. If I went into the offices, I would be overlooked. Holmes would be sneaking into a dead man's house. He would be unaccompanied. _That_ would certainly cause suspicion if seen. In the end, Holmes was doing what was best for me. I cursed myself for not trusting him more.

My effort to not look towards him was pitiable. With the sunset, the quixotic thumping of my heart, and the setting of Paris, I knew it would be hard for me to resist him. I winced and glanced back towards my shoes. We had to leave as soon as possible.

"Well, then." I clasped my shaking hands together. "We mustn't waste a minute."

~.~.~.~.~

Paris at night is certainly more beautiful than the day time. The vivid colors of the markets and shops are gone, but the looming sapphire sky is more stunning than all of them. I tried to keep my head down as I walked, but it was hard not to glance up. Everywhere I looked, gorgeous couples lingered on the other's arm. Their hair was like Chinese silk, and matched the delicacy of their dress. Their faces were like painted dolls, but even more transfixing because they were real. Every single one of them looked flawless. Even the school girls looked lovely as they passed the parks. The whole country was a pearl, that made England seem to be the oyster.

I had my doubts about Paris. Some of them I still harbored. I couldn't understand anyone, but that didn't make me blind. My eyes were wide open to everything.

As I brushed my fingertips on a nearby metal gate, a memory floated back into my mind.

"_Renadale… Are you sure about this?" Watson mumbled as he rested his elbows on the edge of the bridge. We stood side by side, looking out onto the Thames as the sun began to trickle out of sight. "I mean, it's Paris. You've never been away from here."_

"_I know," I smiled. "It makes it worse that you're not coming with us."_

_Watson cracked a smile, but shook his head for reassurance. "I can't. Mary would have my head. If the case takes you two back to London, perhaps I'll toss in a word or two." _

_We were both smiling, but they were not ones filled with happiness. Watson wasn't used to a life without Holmes, and vice versa. He would suddenly have to readjust. But, that's what people did for love. "I'm proud of you, you know. You make her so happy."_

"_All I can do is love her. She makes me the luckiest man alive." He didn't need to say anymore. His words were genuine. "But, what about you? Surely you've had someone before."_

"_No. There's no one." Watson eyed me down. He knew I was lying. There was no point in hiding. "It was a long time ago."_

"_Where did you meet him?"_

"_Near Brighton, actually. He worked with my father… Perhaps I shouldn't get into too much detail."_

"_Brighton!" Watson chuckled as the lamp lighter began to make his rounds across the bridge. "That's where Mary and I are headed after we're married. Have you been further out?"_

_I shook my head. "Paris is going to be the death of me, I'm sure."_

"_Oh, don't think like that," he smiled. "Just remember a few things. The women are as beautiful as they say, and the men as devious. The whole place is a labyrinth and you'll never be able to find your way back to where you started. Also, the food is not appetizing, but the pastries are. Remember those things, and you're entirely set." _

_I sighed as I stared up at the sun. "And is the sunset really as beautiful as they say?"_

_Watson couldn't help but laugh. "You can't even put it into words."_

Watson would have been proud to see me basking in the Parisian sunlight, safe and sound. I loved being able to take it all in without having to dress up. My extra large shoes were crunching beneath the gravel; a sound I found remarkably soothing.

The offices were not more than a few blocks away from the hotel, but the walk was beginning to feel tedious the darker it got. As I turned the corner, the streetlights seemed lovely for a moment. Then, I remembered where I was headed, and that alone was enough to take the charm out of them.

And this time, I was alone.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of a red door. The second I opened it, they would take me to the office of a dead man. Not only that, but the room was practically his grave. I shut my eyes and shook my head as a warning to myself. _If only mother knew what you were thinking. _

The red door suddenly wasn't making me feel any better and I quickly opened the door and rushed inside.

"Puis-je vous aider?"

A large eyed, black haired French woman stared back at me with unmistakable perplexity. I hadn't the slimmest idea what she said and I couldn't help but feel like she saw through my disguise. No matter what, I had to play the part. I had to at least try.

I mustered up the tiny bit of French I knew, and hoped that it made sense. "Oui. Merci. Rouve?" The words tripped over my tongue with a horrible British accent lingering behind them. I hoped she wouldn't notice, but I really just prayed that she understood what I needed.

"Ah, oui. Vous êtes le vendeur de journaux. Son bureau est au bout du couloir et à gauche." Too much French! My forehead was suddenly hot and I was worried that my head was catching fire. I could feel sweat dripping down my back, but was saved when she pointed towards her left. Without a second thought, I rushed down the hallway until she was out of sight.

Knowing that it would blow my cover, I defiantly ripped the hat from my head and searched my pockets for a handkerchief. There was none and I was doomed to restore the hat. I didn't care if I looked like a boy anymore. I just wanted out of there.

Sure enough, Rouve's office was down the left hallway. In big, scrolling cursive above the door it read his name. I pressed my ear against the door, as if there was any sign of life behind it. There was no noise anywhere, let alone in Rouve's office. I felt completely alone. As eerie as it was, I didn't blame the others. A break from work seemed fitting after such an incident.

The unsuitable scent of lavender hit me as I cracked open the door. My hand battered the smell away from my nose. The room was elegant though nearly empty; soft green carpet danced up around my feet, pulling me inside.

Normally, I would have tiptoed my way about the room, but this time was urgent. Just by standing there, I could see so many things going wrong.

Nothing on the desk, and all of the drawers empty.

All of the book shelves deserted.

No markings on the doorway.

The tick of a clock kept mocking me in my defeat. The tick-tocks sounded like a brutal 'give-up give-up give-up'. Father Time was sending me a warning. I couldn't stay for long before the woman, and Holmes, would get curious.

Not sure of what else to do, I rushed over to a glass cabinet full off porcelain and china. I squinted as the sunlight bounced off of the handles and into my eyes. I flipped over the bottom of each vase, hoping to see any sort of peculiar symbol. Nothing. But, I couldn't leave empty handed! I was expected to do something, and to do it right. I wasn't going to ruin my chance.

My hands found their way towards my hips in aggravation as I stared from the corner. My mind scanned every piece of furniture, and wondered where a man might keep such a letter.

"Or rather, _wouldn't _keep."

Instantly, I dropped onto my knees and made my way towards the rubbish bin. I began ripping out old papers, until finally something sparkled into my view.

_You are cut from your bonds early. This is on account of your other memberships. You know which ones needn't be mentioned._

I couldn't resist a gasp from escaping my lips. I bit down on them, trying to hold back a smile. Holmes was right; this person from England wasn't the killer. The note was sent the day before Rouve died. But, they were all connected somehow.

The symbols were the only predicament left.

"Que faites-vous?"

My head snapped up as my body remained hunched over the can. I wasn't sure what my appearance was, but the woman standing in the threshold did not look pleased. Pathetically, I stood up, but not before tucking the paper into the back pocket of my trousers. I wanted to apologize in French, but the word for 'sorry' escaped my memory. All I could do was smile and hope that she wouldn't scream or call the police. Slowly, I slinked past her.

My eyes did a double check on the top of the door before I completely passed the frame.

And there they were. So perfectly small that it wasn't a wonder that I missed it the first time.

The missing symbols.

"Stop!" My body froze as the woman shouted behind me. She was speaking English. In a few seconds, she was blocking my way down the hallway. Her stare was like a knife in my face. "It's clear that you do not speak French."

"That's very true," My voice was cracking like a young boy, and if she couldn't tell that I was female, she was the daftest person on the planet. "But, I'm sincere when I say that I am a detective."

"Oh!" She laughed, but it sounded strained. She was clearly nervous that I would hurt her. "And I suppose you also want me to believe that you are a boy, too? I am no fool. There is word going around this office that the murderer was British, and I can tell that you are too."

"Well, I speak English," I grumbled. "Of course I'm British."

She was obviously annoyed, and I could tell my mockery was not helping. Nothing I said was going to make her believe me, which gave her all the more reason to bolt towards the front door. I stood, frozen to the spot, as I heard her call out into the street. "Help! Help!" What was she going to accuse me for anyway? "There is a thief! A thief!"

I could have laughed if I weren't so nervous. A thief? Hardly! "Liar," I mumbled in aggravation. I may have taken a letter, but besides that, there was nothing in the room I would even want to steal. Besides, I was honestly not interested in a life of crime. Not after all that I'd seen.

I guess my thinking got a hold of me, because before I knew it, two officers were standing at the end of the hallway. "Oh damn it all," I grumbled. My escape was blocked, and I could only think of one other way.

My feet snapped from their place, followed by shouts from the men. I slammed Rouve's door shut and shoved a chair beneath the handle. At least that would buy me some time. I knew that I was afraid, but I was rushing myself too much to notice how I felt.

My hands gripped the edge of the window as I tried to pull it open. My puny arms got the better of me, and all I could focus on was the rattling knob behind me. "No, no, no," I whispered as I tugged at the latch. "Please don't do this right now."

Trying to stay focused, I changed my view back to the window. A scream escaped my throat as Holmes was suddenly on the opposite side. "Open the window, Renadale!" He shouted, after banging his fist on the glass.

Pathetically, I leaned in with my shoulders and attempted to slide it up. It moved a crack, and then a bit more. _Way to save the day, Rena. _ Holmes instantly took over and pulled it open from the opposite side. He grabbed my hand to help haul me out, but both of us froze as the door burst open.

"Arrêtez-les! Arrêtez les voleurs!"

Holmes frowned and shot me a perplexed look. I winced and shrugged. How on Earth would I be able to explain? "No, no, I think you're misunderstanding…" He tried to explain, but by the look on their faces, it was obvious they weren't interested in excuses.

"Come on, let's just go!" With my fist, I grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him down the nearest alley way. That didn't seem to stop the charging officers, and they were quickly on our tails. Holmes stopped dead in his tracks as I desperately tried to haul him along. "What on Earth are you doing?"

"Forgive me for making you watch this. Normally I would compromise, but we don't have the time."

Turning his back towards me, he quickly grabbed one's arm and twisted it around. His arms were flying too fast for me to comprehend his moves. My training obviously had little effect on me. I tried to follow the best that I could as he made his way towards the next man.

_Right arm smack ear, while left grabs his right… Or was that his left? Doesn't matter. His knee goes towards the stomach and then the hands… Oh wait, I missed it. Oh. He's finished. _

Both men were left holding their stomachs on the muddy ground. I couldn't stop my hand from falling over my face in worry. What had we done? If we weren't the bad ones before, we certainly were now.

"Please allow me to explain." Holmes was trying to catch his breath as he spoke to the men. They clearly weren't listening. "My colleague and I are not what you label us. In fact, maybe you've heard of me. My name is Sherlock-"

"Holmes," I grumbled, not intending to finish his sentence. "Let's just go."

He debated with himself for a moment until I physically turned him away. I rubbed my eyes tiredly as we rushed out of their sight. Upon entering the next alley, Holmes tiredly leaned against the moist walls. "Sorry I didn't give you a chance to practice your skills back there." I rolled my eyes and slapped the letter into his hand. He flipped it over, making sure there was nothing the novice missed. "And the symbols?"

"They were there. They were much smaller this time. Whoever the killer is was obviously being more discreet this time around, but something still made him put them there." Holmes's eyes never left the paper as I spoke. Finally, they looked towards me, but with a shocked expression in them. "What?" I mumbled worriedly. I was afraid of a scolding coming my way.

"You look disastrous."

I quickly reached for my head, where I could feel my curls hanging out from beneath my hat. "Oh, no…" I ripped it off from my head and groaned in disappointment. "What are we going to do? We just caused a scene. And not just a small one, but something rather large."

"That's true. Normally I would have just attempted the old verbal route, but I'm afraid we can't waste time in a Parisian prison. I might not have injured the men, but all in all, I don't usually trust officers." I amusedly thought of Lestrade, and knew Holmes was as well. "Old habits."

I tried to change the topic. "Well, what about you? Did you have any luck?"

Holmes swiftly pulled an identical letter from his back pocket. I nodded, pleased to see that we weren't chased for nothing. We both got what we needed. "I analyzed the handwriting a bit before I heard the commotion. Notice the pressure in the words." I pressed my shoulder against his to have a closer look. "He writes firmly, displaying a sense of control. He hides his emotions. However, he may unintentionally snap at any given moment."

I looked over the letters and noticed nothing particularly out of the ordinary. "You can tell all of that from purely looking at it?"

"It's easier than it seems." He handed me the paper. I fumbled with it, my hands still shaking from the previous episode. "I want you to look at it. Tell me what you see."

Not knowing where to start, I listed off simple details. I half wondered if we should even be in the alley, but I didn't question Holmes. If he was unruffled, so was I. "Well, it's very formal. The letters are bulky, and the words slant to the left."

"The formality designates that this man has had a good upbringing. He may not be noble, or rich, but he has certainly practiced in order to impress the lesser and greater." I grunted in amusement. The man sounded egotistical already, and I knew nothing about him. "The size is a broad perspective. The man we're looking at is most likely egocentric, which also explains the slant. He's driven. He expects others to do things for him, because he's done much on his own already."

Carefully, I slid the paper back to him. Though his explanations were impeccable, I couldn't stop thinking one thing. "You have too much time on your hands, don't you?" I meant it as a joke, but Holmes didn't seem to find the humor in it. "No it's incredible, really." His eyes refused to look at me. "I didn't mean it harshly. I was only-"

"Renadale, there is an officer at the end of this alley way who seems very curious in what we are discussing." His voice was suddenly quiet. I felt something crawl up my back, but I knew nothing was there. My body stiffened in its place as I refused to turn around. "You must distract me. You must make this seem as informal as you can possibly think."

"Me?" I whispered harshly. "Why me? Why can't you act normally?"

His lip twitched. "I'm not good at that."

"You think I am?"

"Just do something. I trust your methods." Holmes's eyes glanced behind me once again. I could tell he was even tenser than before. "He's coming closer, and if you want to avoid another confrontation in a back alley way of Paris, I suggest you think of something quick."

Oh, Paris. What is the one thing that is natural in Paris? Macaroons? Perfume? Champagne? No, none of those things. The one thing that would be deemed least suspicious in Paris was in fact; romance. No second thought passed my mind as I quickly leaned into his lips.

Holmes stumbled backwards, obviously surprised with the outcome of my brainstorming. He fell onto the wall, grabbing my waist for support. "Kiss me back before he comes any closer," I warned in his ear. "If you don't, it looks like this was a set up."

I expected the man to come rushing up to us at any moment, but I heard nothing but a grunt from Holmes. Clearly, this was not what he wanted. What else could we have done, though? Gambled? My hair had already fallen, and a woman gambler was not a sight to behold. That would have been more unbelievable than kissing.

Holmes smoothly tightened his grasp on my waist, and spun me around so it was me who against the wall. That was my chance to be surprised. I let one of my hands find his cheek, as the other sort of floated, not quite sure of what to do. His forehead was pressed against mine as our noses threatened to touch. It was certainly a romantic pose. Highly believable. "Is he gone?" I whispered.

Holmes nodded. My hands felt like rocks. I couldn't seem to move them from their place, as they suddenly felt heavy and weighted. Holmes didn't remove his hold either, and we stood like that for a while. Inside, I told myself I didn't want to stare into his eyes. I was fearful of them being able to see right through me. If he knew what I was feeling then, I was doomed. Those four letters were scratching at my brain. It was like they were speaking to me. _"Well, Renadale? Do you feel it? Do you lo-"_ I shoved them away as much as I could.

"Renadale," Holmes's voice distracted me. I mumbled in acknowledgement. "Tonight… if you're not previously engaged…" He fumbled with his words. Did Holmes ever fumble? It hardly seemed so.

"I'm surprised you think I would be."

"Right, of course, you're not…"

"Did you want to ask me something?" I began to let my hand fall from his head, but thought twice and decided to leave it there.

His eyes raised themselves to mine after what seemed like years. Could he tell how hard my heart was pounding? He was so close; certainly he could feel it. "Watson never seems to enjoy the operas I choose, and while we're in Paris, I thought…"

"Are you inviting me out?"

The question sounded utterly juvenile. Holmes stopped talking instantly and pulled his hands away. I stood still, waiting for some kind of response. He had to know that my response would be positive. Or, did he really not know?

"I am inviting you out…" He repeated monotonously. It was as though the idea seemed new to him, even though it was his own. "It's an opera. Don Giovanni, in fact. It was in town in November, but Watson and I never got the chance to go, and I can easily claim that it's one of my favorites.

I nodded hurriedly. Mozart! My very dreams brought alive onto the stage! "Yes, I will go with you!" I couldn't resist a happy laugh, but I questioned myself if I could get ready that quickly.

I had never been to an opera before, though I was a fan of music completely. I would sing in my scratchy alto voice, and pretend that I came straight from an Italian music school. There was no talent in my voice, but pretending wasn't a difficult thing for me. "I suppose we should get going, then." Holmes's lips curled into a smile. Overjoyed, I couldn't resist grasping his hands in mine. The entire incident before seemed to dissolve. We had what we needed, and now what we needed was a break. "Thank you for asking me."

He shook his head mockingly. "There's no one else to ask." And I knew he meant it more than literally.

~.~.~.~.~

Things were becoming more dreamlike with each passing minute. I waltzed around my room, unashamed of my boots. They were a heavenly feeling on my feet after Holmes's shoes. People might stare because of my common apparel, but that was the last thing I was thinking about. I was going to an opera! Did it matter what I was wearing? I was going to be buried in the sweet sensation of live music. There was nothing that sounded as appealing. And, anyone would agree after months of Holmes's violin music… If you could call it that.

I did wish Watson were there to see it with us. Despite what Holmes said, Watson would have enjoyed it just as much as the next person. And overall, things didn't seem the same without him. Holmes seemed more on edge, as though he wasn't really certain he could do it alone. Paris was charming, but I hoped we would be back in England soon.

Where _were_ we going next, anyway?

Curiously, I glanced towards the door. I hadn't been in Holmes's room at all since we'd gotten there, and now seemed like an opportune moment. If I didn't ask, it would be itching at me all evening.

His room was right across the hall and I waited patiently after knocking a few times. "Holmes, I need to ask you-"

As the door swung open, my hands flung up towards my mouth. I bit down on my skin, trying not to scream. After a minute of recomposing myself, I allowed myself to squeak out an entirely new question. "What have you done?"

Along the back wall of Holmes's room, papers and letters were pinned into the wall. The ribbon I had purchased was connecting one paper to the next, all of it seeming like a web of chaos. My head couldn't resist shaking back and forth in awe. If the maids saw that, they were certain to kick us out.

"I thought I explained," he said behind a puff of smoke. "It's a new method. I think I'll set it up again in Watson's old office when we get back to England."

Groaning, I turned my face away from the scene. It looked like hell was splattered on the wall. If I stared at it any longer, I thought I would cry. "Look, I'm not even going to ask about that any further." Holmes smirked, obviously not caring what he did. "All I wanted to know was where we were going next. I want to prepare myself for a sea travel, if need be."

Holmes paused for a moment, before grabbing the door knob. "We're going back to England. Don't worry about where and when, those will come naturally. Now… go powder your nose." The door was shut firmly in my face, and I sighed with worry once again. Holmes was getting more on edge every day. Trying to help calm him seemed pointless, because I knew that was just his nature. He wasn't going to change.

I was glad of it.

Upon reentering my room, I saw my sketching of the shapes lying on my dresser. I held them up to my candle with a desire to set it alight. Decoding wasn't something I was good at. Memorization, yes. I hoped that Holmes knew what these meant, because if he didn't, that meant we would have to visit an expert… and I couldn't only think of one.

"Fool," I groaned aloud. I couldn't help but crumble the paper in my fist as the mere thought of him came seeping into my brain.

I hated him.

I hated the way he would agonizingly pronounce the 'e' in my name with his gaudy, American accent. What else did I despise? The way his laugh would take up his entire, oval face. The obsessive curl of his hair, which scarily matched mine. The way he would always talk about his politics when he clearly wasn't in America anymore. I hated all of it. I hated his smell, his walk, his talk, and his awful American jokes.

Don't get me wrong. Americans are admired everywhere. I envy them greatly. I give Irene one glance, and I'm mad with jealousy. It's just _him_ that I can't deal with. For more than one reason, clearly. And perfectly enough, he was my teacher. He taught me all I knew about symbols. It was only a matter of time until that slipped from my lips, and Holmes demanded we go pay him a visit.

Well, if it came down to that, I would at least do him the decency of sending a warning.

~.~.~.~.~

Knowing that I would take much longer to get ready, and wanting to reserve the seats, I had told Holmes to meet me at the Opera. I had eagerly made my way towards the House and was now on my way up the stairs to meet my new companion for the evening; my seat. My heart beat matched each step up the staircase.

I had heard of Don Giovanni, but knew little about it. And though I spoke no Italian, the music and actors would speak for themselves. Plus, it would be nice to get away from French for a few hours.

I slid my way through the aisle, trying my best to not squash all of the perfectly sewn hems. I got multiple stares, but ignored them as I slid comfortably in my seat. "This is all very thrilling, isn't it?" I whispered to my left without taking my eyes off the stage.

"Yes," a small voice replied. "I… suppose it is, Madame."

My breath caught itself in my throat and I held it as I turned towards the speaker. It was an elderly man with eyes as big as olives. My lips attempted a composed smile, but I was certain I looked more like I was crying. "I'm sorry, I thought you were-"

"Close, but not quite there," Someone whispered in my ear. I turned around to see Holmes sitting in the aisle behind me. "You must have been far too excited to realize that you were in the wrong place." I groaned and stood up, making my way out of the aisle again. When I was finally in my rightful seat, my eyes averted his gaze. "Don't let it bother you. I find it rather charming." He let out that high-pitched laugh he used for valid occasions.

"You find my inanity charming?"

"Of course I do," he smiled. "It's been my constant cohort these past few months."

Playfully, I nudged him on the shoulder. He smiled warmly, while my eyes trailed over his face. Why couldn't we always be this cheerful? I wished it were that easy. In the back of my mind, the case still lingered. I knew this one night out was a treat. Tomorrow, it would be back to business.

There wasn't much time to say anything else before the music came blasting into our ears. The show was starting. My first opera; a gift of supreme beauty.

As the show went on, I found myself watching my dreams on stage. When the plot was introduced, I had to admit that it made my stomach churn. Deceased fathers weren't exactly my calling.

"Are you alright?" Holmes's voice was a soft as a feather. I don't think I would have heard it, if it weren't for the tenor suddenly quieting.

"Of course." My eyes remained fixed so he couldn't detect my uncertainty. "I'm very thankful to be here." That was a reassurance to myself, and the thought of my father slipped away. Mozart was telling me to relax, so I followed his guidance.

The play was a mix of comedy, drama, and the supernatural. I couldn't help but let out a mental laugh as this dawned upon me. Those three genres seemed to find themselves into my very life.

One thing that astounded me was the upscale voices, and the technicality of the score. Mozart and Da Ponte certainly knew what they were doing. Each song clicked with a certain image. Each image clicked with a certain memory. And each memory was like a foreshadowing as to what was coming next. The whole show was like clockwork. And maybe I should have just drooled over the sopranos, but my mind always seemed to view things in the form of gears and bolts. Inventing does that to you, I guess.

I must have looked bothered as the Giovanni ran off the stage, because I felt something warm brush against my hand. I looked down to see Holmes's fingers gently pressed against mine. Giovanni had just been accused by Ottavio to be the murderer, and Donna Anna was in grief. I knew this had to be a superbly important part of the show, but somehow I couldn't seem to focus anymore.

Was it an accident that his fingers were on mine? Of course, he had to notice. _Maybe if I sneak a glance at his face, I'll know what he's thinking. _So, foolishly I did, and then reminded myself: _I never know what he's thinking._

"Mi tradì quell'alma ingrata!"

The voice was Elvira took me by surprise, and my natural instinct caused me the grab his hand. Well, at least… I blamed it on my natural instinct. I expected him to flinch or squirm, but he did nothing. My shoulders dropped with more ease, and I stared down at my hand wrapping itself around his.

A sigh of relief is allowed. For me, maybe. Certainly not for Elvira.

~.~.~.~.~

"Monsieur Holmes? A letter for you."

Holmes and I had just walked into the hotel lobby. The night was perfect, though my nerves got the better of me and I ended up peeling my hand from his shortly after the song. Typical.

"Oui, merci."

"Who is it from?" I inquired, leaning over to read the address. He had opened it and turned his back towards me in secrecy. There was a minute of silence as he read and then quickly slammed it in his pocket. "It's nothing. It's from Watson. He said Mary is fine and has her dress."

What an obvious lie. But why would he be false? "He didn't send me one?"

"Is that really the time?" Holmes swiftly pointed towards a clock hanging above the carpeted staircase. He gasped and then flapped his hand dramatically. "Oh, that won't do. You must get some sleep, Miss Adkins! Busy, busy day tomorrow!" He was now walking briskly away from me, his finger wagging in the air warningly. "If you don't, I am certain you will not survive the trip!"

"Trip?" I called out, nervously. Did he mean by boat? To my misfortune, he had already disappeared from my sight. There was no use talking to him. He was obviously bothered.

Quickly, I made my way up to the front desk. "Excuse me, I'm with Sherlock Holmes." I jerked my thumb to the empty staircase. "I was just wondering if you could tell me who that note was from."

"It was from London, Madame. I am not sure from whom, but the writing was very feminine."

"There was no name? No name at all?" The mere mention of a woman already made me certain of the suspect. However, I longed for certainty.

"No, I am afraid not."

In agitation, I slammed my fist on the counter. The man jumped in surprise, but I was determined to read that note. Clearly, it was from Irene Adler. And if we were going on a trip, I wanted to know if it was to see her. Mental preparation would be needed for _that_ trip.

I made my way up the staircase towards Holmes's room, but stopped when I saw a folded parchment lying on the hallway floor. After checking to see if I was alone, I snatched it from the floor and opened it hurriedly. Sure enough, it was exactly what I wanted. Holmes must have been so flustered; he must not have noticed it falling.

The beautiful penmanship read as followed:

_Sorry for dashing off so quickly. It was rude, wasn't it? I hope you'll forgive me. Eventually, you will. You always do. _

I placed a hand to my forehead, making sure that I was as hot as I felt.

_We'll be seeing one another soon, but you probably already know that. Take care of yourself. I want you in the best of shape when we see one another. _

_A_

Pathetically, I let the paper fall from my hands. My eyes closed with a sense of defeat and I carefully turned to my room. Holmes was right. I just needed some sleep.


	4. Tidal Wave

**Thank you all so much for the reviews!**

**mooney1981: NOT CHOICE B. Haha, don't worry… Irene will be explained!**

**Lillibella: Oh, I'm so glad you noticed the connection, particularly from the first movie. I was watching it the other day and though I should absolutely add it in.**

**xRDJ603: I think I even got mad at myself. But, considering this will lead into the new movie, we have to have some good ol' Irene, right? … Maybe not. But. Yeah. And good for you for knowing French. Because, I certainly don't! (: You'll have to correct me if something is off.**

**Random Reviewer: Whoever you are, I like you. Thank you for taking the time to review! (:**

_**Please review. I miss getting reviews and I hope I haven't lost a lot of readers! **_

**Does anyone here ship Molly/Sherlock from the BBC show? I do. I just love Molly. I hate the way he takes advantage of her, but I would absolutely act like her in his presence. Benedict Cumberbatch is marvelous, if you haven't seen the show… I'm not sure why I'm taking about this right now. I guess I just had a random brain storm…**

**LOVE,**

**MISTRO~**

**~.~.~.~.~**

An older man sat in front of a large, mahogany desk with his hands folded neatly before him. A much younger man sat directly in his unwelcoming line of vision. The older man's expression was one of power, and his oceanic eyes were unwavering. His stare no doubt made the younger man nervous, despite the sparkling day creeping through the windows.

Neither were interested in the weather.

The older man was only interested in the boy that sat before him, and he made his vehemence known through his watchful eyes. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You have your ways, sir. I have mine." The speaker's chapped lips found them curling upwards.

"No," the older man cooed. His short body leaned forward; an act no doubt meant to be threatening. "You have _my _way. I hired you. I own you, and you do as I order."

"And I did," the youth replied. "You wanted three. I gave you three."

"Yes, but I didn't need your _method_." Spit flew from the man's mouth as his voice consumed the tall room. "Your flair; your show… it's unimpressive. It's like leaving a signature on a murder case."

The boy couldn't stop his grin from expanding. "That's _exactly _what it is, sir."

"This is why I have pointed it out to you, aloud. Now you should be able to see the ludicrousness in the entire idea. I expect the next three to go as planned. You will deal with it accordingly, or, I will deal with you."

Now the intimidation was beginning to work.

"I won't let you down sir," a frail cocky accent replied. His body was shrinking into the chair until it nearly became a part of it.

The elderly man sighed. He knew better. The boy wanted his name to be known. He would continue to leave his mark on the murders and there was nothing anyone was going to do to stop him. Despite all this, the boss only smiled. "It may have been foolish of me… to plan this meeting in my own office when just outside the door, _good_ men chatter. However, I am no good man. I am a _great_ man, and no one suspects anything from me."

A scoff went unrestrained from the amused youngster. He viewed his boss as daft, old swine that was too afraid to do his own work. At least, that's what he thought. Little did he know how wrong he was. The plump, bearded man would soon terrorize him. He would find that out soon enough.

"Get out of my office." The boss's tone was practically a purr of sweetness, though they both knew the displeasure lingering behind it. "And wipe that grin off of your face. You won't need it where you're headed."

~.~.~.~.~

_Rip._

I glanced down at the boat ticket being passed back to me. Meanwhile, my suitcase was being suffocated to death by my nervous grasp on the handle. My shaky fingers snatched the ticket away before fear became evident on my face. "Merci." My voice went unheard as I was shoved forward onto the dock.

Holmes was standing behind me with his bowler hat placed properly on his head. He looked very much like a traveler, and though perhaps I did as well, I certainly didn't _want_ to be one. There was little fear in his eyes as he followed me towards the ship. "You must loosen your grip on that suitcase, Miss Adkins. You may break your wrist if you don't."

"Must we be going back to England already?" My tone was pressing as I rushed to his side. "It is really an exquisite day to be leaving Paris, and I think I'm finally getting used to things." Holmes shot me a sideways glance. It was obvious that I was lying through my teeth, and I half wondered if I should take up acting lessons.

"You will survive, Miss Adkins. That is one thing I am certain about." Holmes breezily hopped onto the ramp leading to the docks. "Then again… I'm certain about most things."

My legs were involuntarily tugging me away from the ship. People's eyes found my frozen body, and their whispers described my nerves. A few laughs came from behind me, but I ignored them as I often did.

"You will turn up on that shore like Viola did, and you will find your Sebastian." I heard him say from above. However, the effort to lift my eyes from my shoes was a very large struggle. _Viola from Twelfth Night? Didn't she have to disguise herself as a man?_ I prayed to God I wasn't like Viola. I had had enough dressing up for one week. "Have I ever let you down before?"

The question took me by surprise, and my train of thoughts instantly switched. What about the letter from Irene? _That _had certainly let me down. I hadn't mentioned it to Holmes yet, but of course it mocked me continuously. The small little letters, elegantly curved at the end of her 'y's and 'g's. I could practically smell her perfume on the parchment. But, I couldn't let him know that I had seen it. Boarding a ship wasn't the right time for a serious conversation. "No…" My voice was small. "You've never let me down."

"Then, let us go back to London. I will do my best to continue keeping you in good hands." Holmes was certainly no caretaker, but he did always try his best. His hand reached out for my own. I stayed where I was until the whistle of the boat brought me to my senses.

"Alright." I slipped my hand into his. "You had better prove me right."

~.~.~.~.~

A week. That's how long I would be on that ship. And that wasn't even the end of it. After we got to shore, I would have to take a train back into London. Then, finally, I would be home.

Home?

The very word was better sounded more appetizing than a Parisian macaroon, but saying it tasted bitter. Home? Did I even have one? It was like everything I ever knew was unimportant or irrelevant. Even my mother didn't have to look after me anymore. I traveled from here to there without a second thought of our tiny apartment in London.

The thoughts didn't linger in my mind for too long. I was beginning to feel sick after about an hour, and Holmes recommended I go to the top deck. "Some fresh air will serve you good," he said as he guided me up the stairs. The ship continued to sway despite my prayers. "Sitting on the top deck will cause you to focus on the horizon. Watson said it should distract your stomach." His words meant little to me as I fell against the stair railing with another jolt of the ship. "The more rapidly you get there, the less ill you will feel."

Pathetically, I brushed him off from me. He was getting antsy, but I couldn't help my tribulations. No matter how many cases I did, I always seemed to find something that made my body unhappy. Blood, poison, boats. What would be next? "I'll get there myself, thank you."

I didn't pretend to hide the acrimony in my voice as I rushed towards the top deck. A man greeted me at the top, along with a puff of smoke blown into my face. I coughed and batted it away as his face emerged from the smog. "Seasick, eh?" His eyes were a powerful emerald and took me by surprise. Something about his face was striking, and altogether familiar.

"She is not a sea traveler, I'll tell you that much." I heard Holmes mutter behind me as he took my hand. "You need to sit. Small talk is not acceptable at the moment. In fact, small talk is never acceptable. You only live once, you might as well use words to your advantage."

As I was pulled further away from the kind-faced man, it began to dawn on me as to why I recognized him. "He reminded me of-."

"Your father? Yes, I know."

"How could you…?"

"Blame your pupils. They dilated considerably when you laid eyes upon him. When I held your hand, the sweat rate was much higher than it was below the decks, so I assumed your lack of words had to deal with his impression…" Holmes spoke of me like I was a portrait in a museum. Though I'd seen him do that often to others, it had been some time since he'd analyzed me. I wasn't used to it yet, and I began to feel lightheaded. "He was too old to be any other relative but your father, particularly with the effect it had on you. Now, sit and focus." He swiftly pulled a chair beneath me.

As my eyes fixated themselves on the sun, the shimmering pink hue reminded me of a certain dress. It was clear that the letter was scratching at the back of my consciousness, and I knew I had to ask Holmes about it before my own madness drove me overboard.

"I want to ask you something." It wasn't a matter of if I _could_; I _was _going to get an answer from him. "Tell me about the letter from Irene. I'm asking you what she meant by it."

Once again, I could not interpret his face. Every deduction trick I'd ever learnt from him suddenly dissolved. His eyes stared straightforward as though they were looking into a blank canvas. There was nothing in them. "It's not soon."

"What?"

"Our meeting. I will not see her soon."

He hadn't denied anything. No matter what happened, the meeting seemed to be coming. The mere thought of Irene coming back into our lives made my stomach upset once again. "So, it's positive that she's coming back to England."

"No, she's not coming to London. She's not going anywhere. She's staying exactly where she is as this very moment." His calmness was beginning to deteriorate and I could finally see what was written on his face; nerves. "We will go to her, but not soon. It will be a few weeks."

My heart flipped like a fish on land. "We? I should have known." Holmes only looked at me. "How do you know that it will be a few weeks?"

"Because she's not as clever as she thinks she is."

"Irene is at it again." The breeze blowing in my face tried to calm me down, but I shut my eyes against it. "She wants something, doesn't she? She wants something from you. Suppose this has to do with her employer?"

I think that may have been the first time I had seem Holmes become genuinely startled. "How do you know of her employer?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? She wasn't here to just see you last time. She obviously wants something from you, or she wouldn't have left and written you." Upon hearing my own words aloud, I had to hand it to myself. I was a better sleuth than I gave myself credit for. Holmes said nothing in response.

There were still many questions on my mind, particularly about their relationship, but I decided that I didn't want to know the answers yet. Instead, I thought of the gun I was working on for Holmes. Part of me wanted to toss it off the boat, and let it become one with Davy Jones's locker.

"You've been working on something."

My eyes snapped nervously onto his face. Had I accidently said my thoughts aloud? "What are you talking about? Of course I haven't been working on anything. When would I have the time?"

"Your hands are chapped." My eyes shifted down towards my hands, which were certainly not as smooth as they had once been. "By the look it, you have small cuts on your finger. They're too big for wood, which indicates you have been working with some sort of metal. It's something you're not used to, because being an inventor would certainly open gateways for you to learn tricks about safety."

My mouth hung open as I struggled to respond quickly. "I… haven't been working on anything."

"And your hair has a bit of dust in it. For a second, it looked as though it was old gun powder, but I assume you haven't been playing with guns." The mockery in his voice was excruciating. Who did I think I was? A surprise for Sherlock Holmes? It was perfectly laughable. "I won't ask you any further, but just know that if you need guidance or help with your project-"

"I don't need your guidance," I interrupted. "I know what I'm doing and you will figure out what it is when the moment is right." I'm not certain of how Sherlock's mother had spoken to him, but I certainly sounded like I could have been one. Shock began to dwindle from his eyes as I regained my composure. "Tomorrow. I will show you it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow it is, then."

He couldn't possibly know my surprise, could he? That would completely ruin the point. I glanced at him to see if he was still laying his questioning eyes on me. When I did look at him, I only noticed the grey streaks of hair above his ears. He wasn't an old man, but I heard that stress could cause such occurrences. Regardless, they were charming in their own way and my heart fluttered as I spotted them.

"Have you thought anything of the symbols?" Holmes questioned, making me blush about my previous thoughts.

"I know what each are as individuals, but as a whole, it's a puzzle. What bothers me is why he puts the symbols there in the first place… It's like leaving a mark. Why would any murderer want to do that?"

"A signature perhaps." He flagged a waiter over towards him. "Think about it a bit more as I get myself a drink." My brows must have shot up in surprise, judging by the frankness of his laughter. "Would you like something as well?"

"No, thank you. That probably wouldn't be best for my stomach." I wondered if I had ever seen Holmes drink. It made sense though. After all, _something_ had to calm the man down.

_Square. Dash. Star. Crossed circle._

_Caduceus._

The wind splashed my hair in my face, but my thoughts were too deep to push it away. Why did the murderer leave such a mark? And what of all of the caduceus signs from the previous cases? "The wings are a sign of a spiritual journey… while the snakes are an infinite loop of the same." I spoke the words I knew to be true.

Eternal. Forever. Continuous. That's what I thought of when I thought of the caduceus. So, why was the murderer killing people if life was to be continued on?

What was he trying to say?

"That's it!" I shouted, hauling myself up from the chair. "It's not what he _means;_ it's what he's trying to _say_!" Holmes was walking back towards the chair with a beer in his left hand. He obviously was not expecting to return to such a jovial display, but I could not contain myself. "I swear to you, Mister Holmes, sometimes all anyone needs to do is say their thoughts aloud!"

"I'm assuming you realized something? How interesting…" His eyes twinkled as he looked me over. "It's fascinating how you get excited upon a realization. Does that often happen to common people?"

"The _symbols, _Sherlock. They're not a signature. They're a message." My entire heart was moving up towards my throat as I rushed my words with exhilaration. "He's trying to say something to someone! He's trying to communicate a message!"

Holmes slowly sat down in his chair, but not without taking a swig of his drink. Clearly, he was not expecting this kind of reaction. "That's often what people do when they carve things into walls…"

"Yes, but why would he just leave it there? It must be for someone else; another gang member, perhaps. What if he's trying to warn someone? Or, what if he's asking for something from someone else?"

Holmes was the polar opposite of me as he remained relaxed in his chair. He carefully set his drink on a table between us and stared out into the water. "Asking something… That is a curious notion. However, it's irrelevant. Your mind has produced inconsequential thoughts. What matters are the actual symbols, which I'm assuming you haven't deduced?"

That was a rather low blow, if I had ever heard one. My body found itself sinking lower in its chair. "For once, would you hand me some respect? At least I say my thoughts aloud."

"Don't be too proud of that," he warned. "However, I do congratulate you on your discovery. If that is the case, however, we must figure out what those shapes mean to understand the message." Once again, I felt belittled by Sherlock Holmes. I think it must have been evident on my face, because he quickly sat up to explain himself. "Miss Adkins, I do mean it when I say congratulations. You may be right, and I applaud you for making the idea known. I think we just need another expert."

"Smith," I groaned.

"What was that?"

Shivers shot down my spine, and I was certain it wasn't because of the sea breeze. "Nothing. No one."

"Who is Smith?" Holmes was very much intrigued by this name, and I cursed myself for saying my thoughts aloud. If only Holmes hadn't just warned me of that.

"Smith is a worthless, horrible person who cares for nothing but his research and money. He is American, so that explains a lot of things. He is unimportant and you should forget that I ever mentioned the name." Holmes began to speak, but I warned his with a raise of my hand. "If you even mention his name once again, I will tell Watson what you did to Gladstone last month." His face instantly darkened. The conversation was over.

We were quiet for a while as our thoughts took us somewhere else. My stomach had felt better when I wasn't thinking of it, but now that my thoughts were gone, the illness came tumbling back. "I think I'm going to lie down." My shaky hands pushed me from the chair. "The horizon was a good idea, but I'm afraid I'm just too ill."

"You can't leave." His voice was tranquil. "They're bringing out the band soon."

As if on cue, a few instrumentalists came out from the bar. They were laughing as they held their instruments in their hands and seated themselves on the opposite side of the dock. Couples flocked around them excitedly for their late night music. I, on the other hand, wondered what on Earth I had to do with any of it.

"I'm sure it's lovely…" I smirked. "But, I'm sure I can hear plenty of music in Trafalgar's square. I would much rather dream of music, than hear it at the given moment."

Holmes stood in my way as I began to exit. "Yes, but it's not quite the same."

"Why not?"

"Because, if one were to dance with someone else in Trafalgar's square, I'm almost certain it would be frowned upon, whereas here it's completely satisfactory and even encouraged."

"Dancing?" The opening tunes of a violin struck up across the deck. All heads snapped in their direction, and it was just then that I had noticed the large crowd forming a dance circle.

Holmes had responded to my question, but the response went unnoted because I was too in awe by the band. My head cocked in curiosity as the violin struck up a jig. "I think I know this song." A warm feeling crossed my heart as a distant, country memory set in. "My cousin used to play it during Christmas, if I'm remembering correctly."

"And you used to dance to it?"

A laugh escaped my lips. "That's a horrible joke, Sherlock." The violinist's fingers were flinging across the strings like a whip. He shut his eyes and played a happy melody with such ease, I would have bet he could do it standing on a tight rope. All of this was happening while I was lying sick on the bottom floor? I had certainly missed a lot on my way to Paris. "I must admit, I'm rather enjoying this. I should come up on the top deck more often."

Holmes stepped beside me and I finally allowed myself to break my vision from the instruments. I offered him a small smile as I noticed my stomach relaxing itself a bit. "I'm assuming you feel better then?" He asked politely. I nodded and took a few steps closer to the music. "I'd say you're good enough to dance, by the looks of it."

My chest suddenly felt like lead. "You're not really asking me to…"

"Of course I am. I taught Watson how to, and I can teach you as well."

My head mechanically shook. Certainly he could read the answer in my face. There was no consideration needed. "You can't dance with me. It wouldn't work, I promise you." Anything would be useful at that moment to get me out of there. "In fact, now that I think of it, I'm not feeling all that well… Excuse me."

I tried to inch my way past him, but his fingers gently found my wrist. There was no argument. I was going to dance with him. My head felt light as he pulled me into the center of the circle and placed my hand on his shoulder. "Follow my lead."

Other couples were waltzing around us, but my feet wouldn't move. I couldn't breathe or think. Eyes from unknown places were fixated on us, and it only made me more hesitant. "If you want them to stop looking, you'll have to start dancing."

Pathetically, I shook my head. I couldn't find the words. I was not about to make myself look like a fool in front of everyone. My mother had tried to teach me many womanly things, and though I failed at many, I did not fail at all.

Well, dancing was one that was considered a failure.

"I'm surprised…" Holmes whispered. "You really expected to be with a socialite like Edward Brettingham when you didn't even know how to dance? I'm sure he would have broken off the engagement if he would have learned of your inabilities."

"That is too harsh." I squeezed his shoulder in anger. "I'll dance with you, as long as you swear to me that you'll never whisper, speak, or shout anything ill about Edward and I's relationship again." Holmes cracked a wide smile. I could see that he accepted these terms.

Without my agreement or preparation, Holmes suddenly placed his hand on my waist. My breath caught itself. Surely my eyes were dilated _now_. "Sorry." My voice was flustered, but I quickly regained my composure. "Let's… try this again."

And so we did. At first, things were a bit difficult. My hands were as moist as the water beside us, and my heart was punching the sides of my head. His hands were on me! My mother would have fainted. What kind of life was this that I was suddenly living? Five years ago, I thought I would be sitting in an office, looking for grammatical errors on medical papers. But, no! I was dancing with a gentleman… for the most part. He hadn't even been forced to dance with me. And, as I looked into his eyes while we danced, I saw something gleam in them. I felt beautiful sometimes. When he would look at me a certain way, he made me feel _beautiful_.

"I knew you would get the feel of things."

"What?" I asked, startled. It was only then that I had noticed we had been waltzing casually for some time now. I hadn't tripped over his feet or stumbled over my own. I was truly getting the hang of it. Mother would have cried from my success, but if she could have read my thoughts, I'm not sure how pleased she would have been. "This is much easier than I thought."

I spoke too soon. Excitement got the better of me and I suddenly felt toe against toe. My body fell forward, but not without a firm hold from Holmes. He only smiled. "When we get back, we will have to show John what you've learned."

The feeling I held then was so sweet, so innocent, that I wished we weren't headed towards a case. I wanted to sail away from it. I wanted to pass the shore into a different life; one that was much simpler and easier than the one I possessed. Of course, Holmes would have to be in it. There would be no living without him. Despite his methods and oddities, he would have to stay.

As another song struck up and my hands once again found Holmes, I told myself I could get through this. I would be able to survive this boat trip with a clear and level head.

I would be able to survive anything.

At least, that's what I thought.


	5. The Other Holmes

**Ello everyone! I'm not going to leave a long note today, because I am currently in the process of watching Sherlock. Please comment and favorite, as you all have done very sweetly enough for the last chapter!**

**Much love,**

**Mistro~**

~.~.~.~.~.~

"Just kiss me."

The desire in his voice was unmatched, though I had never heard it from anyone else before. Despite the butterflies floating about my stomach, my hands shoved his face away from mine. "I won't kiss you." That was a lie. The man was charming as it was, but when you got to know him, he was even more so. Any girl in her right mind would love to give up their first kiss to him… whether they planned on marrying him or not.

"Don't get me wrong, Renadale. I think it's sort of romantic that you've never kissed anyone. It's exciting, you know?" His American accent began to trickle into my head and make me dizzy. "It's almost like I'd be knocking down a great barrier."

"That's why you want to kiss me?"

"No!" He arched his back to laugh with amusement. His hands were buried deep in his pocket as he chuckled, and he looked like a teenage boy. "I want to kiss you, because you're _you_."

His strong arms unwelcomingly found their way around my body. I gasped upon being completely encircled by his embrace. We weren't even an announced couple, let alone married. His touch was altogether surprising and I prayed no one would follow us up the hill and see the event. "Get off of me," I warned, though I was a bit spellbound. "I'll scream."

"Do it." Nothing seemed to stop his smooth lips from spreading into a smile. His handsome features and confident attitude were unaccustomed to me, so I bitterly shoved him away once more.

"I'm warning you; keep away from me."

"Or…?"

"Or, I'll tell my father. And you know what he'll do? He'll-"

"He'll tell me to marry you."

If I wasn't blushing enough before, I was positive that my face was as bright as an apple then. "What?" Shock was evident in my tone. "N-No, of course he wouldn't say that." Actually, my father would have been exuberant if we were to be wed, but I wasn't going to admit out of fear of his pride. "He… He hates you."

Though it sounded like a serious conversation, neither of us could stop our cheeks from rising. We both knew the truth of the matter. "Of course he doesn't hate me. He loves us together. It's painted clear as day across his face. Not to mention, he'd be overjoyed if you moved to Brooklyn with me."

"Brooklyn?" I didn't know whether to scoff at the city of the idea of me living there. Some people said it was busier than London, and on its way to become evening more industrial. "You think I could live in Brooklyn? I can barely manage in _our_ great city. That's a bad joke, if I ever heard one."

"Well, of course you could survive! You already live in a big city. You'd fit right in." I could feel him coming up behind me, but was still startled when his arms wrapped themselves around my waist. His chin rested perfectly in the crook of my shoulder. "People would think you're stunning. You're a true natural beauty. You don't need that extra makeup or bustling gowns. I mean, you also have that little accent…"

"Little accent? I'm English. It's no little accent. My people have half the world conquered."

He smiled against my ear before gently kissing the top of it. The butterflies were threatening to never leave my insides. "Whatever it is, it's cute."

Worried that someone might show up, and not trusting myself, I shoved him off and continued to make my way towards the grassy summit. I could hear him on my heels, so I broke out into a nervous sprint. Suddenly, we were both running and laughing. My boot must have caught a rock, because I was instantly on the ground. My eyes were shut and I was laughing. Then, I turned my head and saw that he was right beside me. His warm hand took mine as his lips pressed themselves into my palm.

My voice was barely audible. "You're leaving soon, aren't you?"

"No," he stared back at me. "No, I'm not going to leave you."

"Yes. You _are_ going to leave me."

"Renadale Adkins," he whispered. "I'm not going on that ship without you."

I turned my face away from him, afraid that he could see a wounded heart inside of them. "You would do it. Everyone knows that's how things go. I'm not as beautiful as you keep saying I am. You live so far away and… you would do it because I'm just not that kind of girl."

His fingers stroked the side of my cheek. I knew he wanted to spill his heart. We both knew that he couldn't. So, he said the little that he could. He said the passion that he was permitted. "Then become that kind of girl, Renadale. Be that kind of girl with me."

~.~.~.~.~.~

My body flung forward as the train screeched to a halt. I was grasping Holmes's arm for support as I was thrown back into reality. Our heads turned towards one another, both of our eyes wide with surprise. "Good morning." He gently helped me sit back in my chair. "You were dreaming for quite some time."

"I wasn't dreaming," I choked. "I was having a nightmare."

Holmes grunted amusedly before returning to his paper. "It's all the same these days, isn't it?"

The images of the hill and the feeling of his arms wouldn't leave me. I tried to shake it off, but it was no use. "Are we there yet?" My head turned to the window in hopes that some other object would distract me. Nothing but the English countryside was in sight, and I knew we were still far away. I too was still far away from forgetting the memories.

"Clearly not." He flipped another page stoically. There was no use talking to him when he was reading the news. Something was turning in his brain; his gadgets and gears were moving and it was clear that I needed to give him space. Well, that was fine by me. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I was afraid of more recollections that might flood back in. Instead, I slinked out from the seat as Holmes beadily eyed me down. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know," I muttered. "I think I need fresh air."

The train shook as I headed towards the back deck, and I found myself reaching towards other seats for balance. Muttering my apologies, I finally made my way to the back of the vehicle.

Fresh air was exactly the cure I was looking for. My hair was thrown back as I opened the door, and I was instantly hit with a gorgeous view of the country side. Hills rolled past me and I could see the usual farmland sheep in the distance. It reminded me of the place I once lived, and I knew that it wasn't just the sun that was warming my heart. Peace was beginning to find me once again as I let the hillside memories slip away.

Being outside opened up something inside of my head. My shoulder relaxed, my spine grew, and my face fell into a normal position. I wished that I could speak to Holmes about my past, but it was no use. How could I, when I couldn't even admit its truth to myself?

I stood outside for a minute or two longer before heading back inside. The door clicked shut behind me as a newspaper on the left caught my attention.

**MURDERS IN LONDON.**

**SCOTLAND YARD QUESTIONS CONNECTION WITH THE FRENCH BOOKMARKER.**

My fingers never took something so quickly. This was what Holmes was reading, and he didn't even bother to wake me up? After reading the article, I knew that it had to be the same murderer. All of the signs were there. The book lying next to the bodies, the politicians… It was obviously the same man. Or worse; someone was working alongside him.

"But how?" I voiced my concern aloud. "How did he get back to London so quickly?" Holmes was right; the man must have been English. Or at least, he knew his way around London. But, how did Holmes know the murderer would show up there anyway?

"Oh! Why does he never tell me these things?" The anger was evident in my voice as I quickly returned to my seat, paper in hand. "What is this?" I shoved the paper in front of his nose. Others were watching us now, but I could have cared less. "You thought you could just slip this past me, and not let me hear of it?"

"I knew you'd hear of it." His brow rose quizzically. "That's why I didn't bother waking you up. You seemed to be having a nice sleep. You kept smiling and…" Somehow the expression on his face looked hurt.

"You should have woken me." My voice was urgent. "You should have gotten me out of my sleep so we could talk about this."

"There's nothing we can do but wait." He moved his legs so I could have room to get back to my seat. I didn't want to sit down with him at that moment and I hesitated to join him. "Renadale, you should know something-"

"It just upsets me." I ignored him and made my way back to my chair. "It's questionable that you didn't think it was important enough to wake me. And, who cares if I was smiling in my sleep? It was a horrible dream, and I wish you would have woken me." Holmes didn't apologize. Instead, he slapped something onto my lap and left it there. I glanced down at the tiny piece of paper, somehow afraid to pick it up. "What is this?"

"A ticket."

"Clearly. But, why are you giving me a ticket to Chichester?"

"Because we're going to Chichester."

I must have looked pretty furious, because Holmes actually looked afraid. I could feel a scream coming towards the top of my throat, but I swallowed it down the best I could. "What do you mean we're going to Chichester? We're not. We're going to London, so don't play tricks with me."

"Well, clearly the plan has changed. Watson is meeting us near Chichester tomorrow."

My fingers held the wooden armrest so tightly; I thought I might get splinters. "Why is Watson meeting us? Why are we not going to London?" My voice dropped to a secretive hiss. "That's where the murders are!"

Holmes quickly snatched my wrist and began pulling me towards the back of the train. Everyone was watching us now, but slammed the door with a thud anyway. "I used to have problems getting you to talk, and now I fear you have that perfected a bit _too_ well."

"Tell me what's going on."

"We're going to see my brother, Mycroft. He knows the men who were killed. I'm going to ask about them, and he's going to help us." His motions and speech were hurried, almost urgent. Holmes was out of character… almost nervous. "He may not be the easiest to get along with, but I'm certain he'll do us some good."

"Why aren't you trying to actually stop the murders? Why are you just trying to get inside of their heads, instead of actually saving lives?" My whole body was hot, despite the wind on the bit of my neck that wasn't covered with my high-collar. "Doesn't that matter to you?"

"They're dead, Renadale. They're not coming back." His eyes peeled away from mine and turned to the small village passing us by. "They're not going to talk to me and tell me about their lives, so I have to figure it out on my own. Look the truth in the face for once, and accept that sometimes even I am too late. We didn't make it. _I _didn't make it and I let them down."

Holmes's voice was shattered by the end. I knew I had been too harsh with him. I was never even able to show him how much I appreciate him with my gift; I had gotten too sick on the boat. "I'm sorry." My voice was as gentle as I could make it. "It just frustrates me when I don't understand what's going on. I'm new to all of this. I never feel like I'm getting any better, or that I'm weighing you down."

Holmes remained silent. There was little cheer in the air though the sun was greeting us tenderly. Whatever I said next had to make him feel better about this failing case. "Holmes, I know someone who can help us."

That grabbed his attention. "Help us with what?"

I hated the words I was about the say, but I knew they needed to be said. "I know a man who can help us with the symbols. He's a..." Would I be able to not swear? "Well, it doesn't matter what he is." I feared I wouldn't. "But, he'll know what they mean. He always does." Holmes was certainly engrossed now. "He lives by Chichester, so we should be able to take a train from your brother's house to go and see him."

"Who is this?" Holmes was obviously aware of my hostility. "You seemed horribly distressed."

"His name is…" I knew this would be the death of me, but we _needed_ an expert. "His name is Thomas Smith." Even the sun wasn't as large as Holmes's grin. "How on Earth is that funny?"

"That's just… _horribly_ American. You can't get much worse."

"No, you can't. And I don't just mean in name."

"How'd you meet?"

_Mountains. Flowers. Perfectly white teeth. Ancient artifacts. The windy breeze. His blue jacket blowing open. Curls as dark and twisted as my own. Mellifluous laughter. _

All sorts of senses came pouring in with Holmes's question. "Come on," I began pulling him back inside. "I think I've told you enough about him for one day." My voice was small and squawky when I answered. Holmes's face knitted itself together in confusion, but I turned away from him as we took our seats. I wasn't going to let him deduce my heart. "He'll tell you all about it when we meet him, I'm sure of that. I'll send him a note."

"He must be charming."

I wanted to swallow the bile I felt coming up my throat. "How could you deduce that?"

Holmes's head slowly rolled over onto his shoulder. "Your face is ruddier than my red handkerchief and your breathing is heavier than the elderly man in front of us." That was a bit of an exaggeration. The man in front of me must have had lung issues, because I could hear him from the back of the train.

"If that's the case, then you should most likely assume that I'm put off by him, and therefore he should not be talked about any longer."

Holmes's lip twitched, hiding back a smile. "If that's the case, I'm thrilled. You won't be running off with him, then." I was about to ask why he even cared; when he flipped open his newspaper once again. "Three more miles until Chichester. Three more miles until you meet my greatest opponent."

I had hoped that by dropping the Thomas conversation, things would relax a little. Then, I remembered that we were going to meet Mycroft Holmes. I knew nothing about this man other than his genius mind. In my imagination, he was tall, lanky and often smelled of fresh cologne. He would hold his head up very high and smirk downwards at his stupid little brother.

Maybe another Holmes would win my heart.

I laughed at the idea and pressed my forehead against the cold window frame. The heat from my face sprinkled out as the glass cooled my skin. Soon, we would get to see Watson. That was something I knew would make me happy. From the corner of my eye, Holmes's fingers were drumming against the side of the paper. I couldn't resist a smile. He was obviously very happy to see his friend too; his excitement was far too obvious.

~.~.~.~.~

"Portsmouth, ladies and gentlemen!" The railroad conductor announced as we excited the cabin. "Take your other trains and wagons here for nearby towns in West Sussex!" I had to put my hands over my ears to drown out the whistles, voices and shouts. Holmes was dragging me along towards the station. The only thing I could do was follow, since I really had no idea where I was headed. "Are we taking another train to Chichester?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, no. Mycroft is getting us by coach. He's staying around here for a few days and then heading back to London where he will continue his… work." Mycroft Holmes was going to be just as much of a mystery as his brother. "The house is about halfway from Portsmouth and Chichester, so the ride should be enjoyable."

"Is there anything I should know about your brother before I meet him?" Holmes sighed and scratched his head. He didn't seem to know where to start. "For instance, does he have a family?"

"No," Holmes laughed as though the idea was a foreign one. "No family. He's not interested in a wife, and certainly not children." I expected further explanation, but none was given. It was distressing that the Holmes brothers lived in solitude. What were their childhoods like? Perhaps it would be easier to scratch the surface with Mycroft than it was with Holmes.

"And his job… Well, you've already told me that he _is_ the British government."

"There's really no better explanation."

That was a lot to look forward to. "Right, well…I'll avoid asking anything about that."

"My brother loves food." Holmes looked rather disgusted. "He eats three times a day, and over three courses at each meal. He respects food, though I can't understand why, since we only live such a short time. Our thoughts ought to be elsewhere."

"Elsewhere? What's the point of trying to save lives when everyone dies anyway, then?" Holmes remained silent. "Your brother can love food if he wishes. It's _because_ we live such short lives that we should be able to worry and care about what we feel is special."

"She is _exactly_ right. You've picked out another fine one, Sherly."

The low, Oxford accent behind us startled me to no one. My entire body froze as Sherlock spun around to greet him. I, on the other hand, could not bring myself to turn around. "Mycroft," I heard Holmes say happily. "You're looking much brighter than before."

"Don't put it on account of your being here, Sherly. I'm not the slightest bit happy to see your face." That was obvious mockery; I heard the brothers slap one another's backs. That was a trait I would never understand with men. "And who is your friend here? It must be Renadale. The hair isn't dark enough to be Ire-"

"This is Renadale," Holmes said hurriedly. A firm hand spun me around. "She'll be staying with us for the time."

Mycroft's eyes lit up at the sight of me. His small lips suddenly grew into a huge grin on his face, and I found my heart pounding in my chest. He was nothing like I imagined! The man was huge! More in height than in stomach, but his belly wasn't exactly petite either. His hair was grey and slicked back like a true business man. Something about his face was rather droopy, and his overall appearance didn't seem like a man who controlled parliament. Despite all this, his face and body language were much more welcoming than his brother's, and I hoped we would start on a good note.

"I'm sorry for not introducing myself sooner, Sir." I curtseyed. "I was a bit startled, that's all."

"Sir?" He chuckled loudly, startling the coach driver behind him. "You don't need to address me by anything other than Mycroft." Something slipped into my hand and I was surprised to see large, gloved fingers wrapping themselves around mine. Mycroft bent down, kissed my bare skin, and gestured back towards the moriah as if nothing had happened. "Come on, both of you. I've got a four course meal waiting for you at the house."

Food. I hadn't even thought of it in weeks. It seemed irrelevant, but when the image of hot, delicious meat came flooding into my mind, I could think of nothing else.

"Sherlock, why don't you take the private coach I brought? Miss Adkins and I will sit together in the one following." Holmes's composure instantly dropped, but he said nothing as he parted ways from us. Mycroft held open the door for me as we approached ours. "Now, we can speak of him without him overhearing." Mycroft whispered, followed by a mischievous wink.

Mycroft Holmes and I were going to be good friends.

~.~.~.~.~

Mycroft Holmes was nothing like his brother. There was a certain air to him that was attractive, such as his humor and worldly visions. However, after only a few minutes alone with him, I was beginning to see similarities.

"You've recently been sea sick, haven't you?" His pudgy face frowned with genuine concern. Afraid I might still be green, I secretly pinched my cheeks as I spoke.

"I've never been on a boat quite as long as the Paris trip." Hopefully some pink was rising into my face. "At first it was very frightening, and I do admit I felt terrible."

"_Renadale, don't talk…" Holmes's fingers lightly brushed my forehead as he pulled the hair away from my eyes. "If you need something, let me get it for you."_

"Your brother took very good care of me." My whole body started to shake at the memory. I hoped Mycroft didn't notice my flustered composure. "However, I was in and out of being sick, so I can't remember much of the ride at all."

"Yes, I can tell because the white lace around the end of your sleeves has turned yellow." I glanced down at my dress to see that he was correct. What did that have to do with anything? Besides the fact that it was high time I got a new dress. "When you were sick, you must have sweat quite a bit, and afraid of taking off your clothes around my brother, you continuously dabbed the sweat away from your face with your sleeve…" His voice trailed off as he pursed his lips questioningly. "Therefore, it turned yellow."

The conversation was rather disgusting, and it was suddenly clear to me that Holmes wasn't the only one with solution powers. Sheer embarrassment caused me to turn away. I was beginning to inwardly pray that we would switch carriages. In fact, I presumed God was probably getting annoyed with my prayers, I was asking so desperately.

"I'm making you nervous."

"What?" A struggled smile slid across my face. "Of course you're not making me nervous, Mister Holmes. I'm merely admiring the English countryside."

"Aha! Right; of course you are. Is that because it reminds you of your childhood home?" He continued to grin through all of this, though I was clearly not ready for another detailed description about my life from a man I hardly knew.

"And how exactly did you manage to figure that one out?"

He leaned back in surprise, obviously a bit offended by my sharp tone. "Sherlock told me via letter." I didn't need to pinch my cheeks anymore. Color was certainly rising to them.

"I'm so sorry… I didn't mean…" Pathetically, my hand fell against my forehead. "Sometimes I speak without thinking. It's a habit I fear will never leave me."

"That's quite alright, dear. Sometimes I think without speaking and it gets me into a bit of a mess as well." With a chuckle, his large hand patted my knee for reassurance. "I can understand that you're a bit overwhelmed with my deciphering of you. I'm sure Holmes does his fair share of it back in London?"

I rolled my eyes and nodded. I didn't blame Holmes, though. That was his job. That's what he was meant to do and he was perfectly good at it. Sometimes, I just wanted to be more than his picture. I didn't want him to study me.

I wanted him to see me.

"My dear girl, let's stop all of this chatter about emotions and deductions… Let's talk of something much more interesting than all of that." That mischievous twinkle was back in his pupils. His intense gaze made my body curl up inside itself. "Let's talk about my little brother."

I prayed with every ounce in my soul that he wouldn't ask about our relationship.

"How would you describe your relationship with him?"

Damn it all.

"Relationship? I think you mean friendship." Sherlock had issues reading my heart, and I hoped Mycroft would end up being the same. "There's really nothing personal going on between us. In fact, he's actually my boss, so I sort of just tag along."

"Like a terrier! How charming!" That was perhaps the first time I had been compared to a dog, but I wasn't complaining. At least we weren't talking 'us' any longer. "You see dear, the reason I ask is because I believe that Sherlock has some trust issues. However, with you he seems to have none. I take pride in calling him my younger brother, but the man can be rather daft at times…"

"He says the same about you."

"Does he now? Well, that doesn't surprise me. We're always poking fun; it's how we show affection." I was surprised and glad that Mycroft was opening up so easily to me. "Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that… My brother cares for you. He does, and though he's awful at admitting anything or showing any kind of affection, if he didn't care he wouldn't have told me so much about you."

There's a moment in everyone's life when something clicks inside of your head. It's like a snap realization; like a lost boat pulling into its dock. You realize that everything is good and where it should be. That's how I felt when Mycroft Holmes told me his observation. I couldn't convince myself that it was wrong this time. Mycroft told me what he saw. Mycroft was presumably a genius. This time, I had to believe that it was true.

"Are you alright?"

"What?"

"Your face, it's…" His fingers reached out with concern. I pulled away, chuckling uneasily.

"I'm sorry, that was completely unexpected. I wasn't sure how to react."

Mycroft continued to look at me with worry. "Miss Adkins, why is it that you are so surprised? Holmes said that you were getting to be very good at deduction yourself. Could you not deduct his feelings towards you?" I felt like I was going to be sick. Not in a bad way, necessarily. "It surprises me that he would pass on these compliments if you couldn't even realize the obvious detail that he had emotions for you."

"I've only ever had one real man have affection for me, and that ended…" I bit lip. Mycroft and I weren't close yet to discuss my past. I wasn't close enough with _anyone _to admit that. "It ended less than happily. I'm afraid I sheltered myself for so long that I've forgotten what it was like when someone felt anything _true_."

Mycroft tucked his chin into his neck, followed by a sarcastic peer. He knew that I had affection for Holmes, but it was clear I was struggling with it. "This is hefty stuff for a first time conversation, isn't it?"

"A little bit, yes."

Mycroft shrugged his perfectly tailored shoulders. "I'm not the one who tends to care for perfect manners. If my brother is bothered by something, I tend to bring it up. And you seem to be pecking away at his feeble mind." I wouldn't have called his mind feeble, but… "All the same. You will love my country home, I'm sure of it. Now, I will confess that there's no maid to help me clean things up, so you may be startled by the dust."

My own bedroom had floorboards that creaked with every toe and the windows were so dirty, I couldn't even tell if it was night or day. "Oh, I promise you… I'm not one to notice cleanliness."

"You're Sherlock's maid though, aren't you?"

Oh, right. I had forgotten that tiny detail. Again. "If you consider a maid who doesn't get paid for her labor still a maid, then yes. I suppose I am."

Mycroft laughed heartily. "You're not his maid, dear. You're his partner."

The word partner suddenly reminded me of something very important. "Is John Watson at your home? Is he waiting for us there?"

"The doctor fellow?" I was surprised Holmes hadn't mentioned him more, considering they'd been friends for years. "No, no. He's decided to stay in a little hub down the street. Perhaps we'll invite him over for dinner some day." That was a bit of a disappointment, but I didn't let it show. I dearly missed John, but I wouldn't disagree with choices.

I began to think about John and Mary, and what their lives would be like once he stopped dealing with the cases. They would have beautiful children and live in a nice house with a lot of framed photographs. They would have tea every morning, every afternoon and every evening after dinner. Their shoes would always be polished, and there would be a typewriter in every room.

The very thought of it made my stomach turn upsettingly. What an expecting, boring life. Where was the excitement and the thrill? I couldn't believe the thoughts I was thinking. I had always been envious of the life they lived, and thought I would become more jealous after they were wed. However, imaging the lifestyle they were about to lead was horribly unappealing.

Maybe I should never get married. Maybe I would rather die than live a routine life like that.

"Stop!" A voice shouted from outside. Mycroft and I both turned towards the window at the sound of Holmes's voice ahead of us. "Stop the carriage!" The horses whined angrily as the driver choked them to a stop.

There was hesitancy in his voice; one that I didn't recognize. Mycroft kicked open the door swiftly, not waiting a moment for the coachman. We both hoped out, but neither of us expected the swift cloud of dust that came flying at us. Our arms shielded our faces the best they could. "What's going on?" I shouted, afraid to open my eyes.

The noise suddenly hit me. A few yards away, people were screaming. I heard sobs from animals and humans. My arms were glued to my face and I was afraid to pull them away. That was when I heard the shout;

"Bombing! There's been a bombing!"

"A bombing?" Mycroft shouted furiously. "Why would someone bomb the English countryside?" His firm hands grabbed my upper arm and began pulling me somewhere. My eyes were still shut. I didn't want to see what was happening.

"Renadale, open your eyes." Sherlock was the one speaking now, and I found myself nervously allowing my vision back in. Smoke was coming out of an old building, and you couldn't yet see the damage it had done. People near the ruin lay on the ground, holding body parts and moaning for help. Doctors and other civilians scurried around them. You could tell the town was small and beautiful, but suddenly that had all changed. "Don't run off anywhere. Stay here for a bit." He began to walk away, but I quickly pulled him back by the shoulders.

"I'm coming with you."

There was no arguing this time. Holmes and I began to walk towards the center as the dust floated into the pale blue sky. It was the early afternoon, and the sky was beautiful despite the scene below it. Mycroft was sending the carriages to a safer place so the horses wouldn't have trouble.

"Excuse me," Holmes tried to stop a woman. "Can I ask what was happening here before the bombing?"

The woman was shaking and startled, but Holmes held her firmly. We needed answers and he was going to get them, despite the traumatic look in her eyes. "There was… A business meeting, or something." She shook her head as tears trickled down her face. "There were some men from London here. I don't know who they were! Please, let me go! I have to find my husband!" She kept glancing towards the dissolving building. It was filling her with fear and she wanted to get away as soon as possible.

I reached out to pull his hands back. "Thank you," I answered for Sherlock, who was lost in a state of bewilderment. "Thank you, you've been very helpful."

"Parliament men?" Holmes whispered, baffled. "It's like the other killings. But, why aren't they more stealthy? What happened to the symbols and the books?"

"Maybe it was someone different, maybe-"

"It couldn't have been someone different!" Shear frustration took over his face. Taking a step back, I allowed him some personal room. He didn't seem to want it though. Like a tired, old man, he made his way back to the carriage. Splashes of dust curled up around him until he turned the corner and was out of my sight.

Holmes was breaking. The case was moving so fast and obviously was becoming more dangerous. I hated seeing him that way, but if _he_ was under pressure… We were all going to become hopeless.

I turned around and looked at the rubble that was suddenly deserted. My feet tugged me a bit closer even though I was afraid of what I would see beneath that fallen wood.

"Miss Adkins," I heard Mycroft call behind me. My back remained turned. "I think you've had enough excitement for one day. You'd best come back to the house with us."

But, I didn't want to. I wanted to figure things out so we could have a decent lead. Holmes shouldn't have had to feel the way he did. Somewhere inside of me, I believed that I could make him happy. Somewhere inside of me, I knew that there was still hope.

"Yes," I finally answered. "Let's be on our way."

~.~.~.~.~.~

_Mister Smith,_

_I understand that you still reside outside of Chichester. I'm here on account of business and could use your help with a symbol that has been incorporated into my work. If you have a spare day to come and meet me to discuss things, it would be greatly appreciated._

_Sincerely,_

_Renadale Adkins_

The formality of the letter would no doubt surprise Thomas Smith, but I did what was needed to be done. Quietly, I put my ink away, folded up the paper and stuck it in its rightful envelope. After scribbling down the address, I allowed myself a sigh of relief. He might just be the answer to our prayers. That is, _if_ he responded.

When we had arrived at Mycroft's country home, I had little time to admire the place. I was frightened and tired, so nothing seemed to draw me in but a bed. I began to head towards the wardrobe, where a lovely silk nightgown was laid out for me. Reaching up for it, I was interrupted by a knock on the door. The clocked read past ten, and I was surprised to be having visitors so late into the night. Carefully, I pulled back the silver knob and was surprised to see just who was behind it.

"Sherlock… I wasn't expecting you."

"No, I suppose you weren't." His eyes were bright red, but beneath them were pools of blackness. He looked weak, and I urgently ushered him inside. "I'm sorry for intruding in on you like this." His nightgown and robe obviously suggested that he wasn't planning on it. "My mind wasn't working correctly, and I thought that if perhaps I were to speak to you, I-"

"Its fine," I said as I pulled up a chair. He sat down swiftly, nearly collapsing. "You can feel free to bother me any time you like." He nodded gratefully, but his eyes shifted towards the lit candle on my desk. "I finished writing Mister Smith a letter. I asked him to come and meet us as soon as possible."

"Thomas…" He quickly mumbled. I expected more, but he stayed silent.

"How are you feeling?" More silence. I wasn't the best at nurturing emotions, but I did have one thing that might make the situation better. "Can I show you something?" His head bobbed up and down for a while, so I assumed that was a nod of acceptance.

I made my way over towards my suitcase, unlatching the clasp in the middle. The rusty metal flung open, displaying a nearly empty suitcase. My hands rummaged through the fabric until they finally felt something smooth and cold. "Aha, here it is."

Holding the gun behind my back, I hoped that when I handed it to him he wouldn't be startled. "Open your hands." A smile was creeping onto my face. I felt like a young girl at Christmas time. He did as he was told, and I swiftly dropped the weapon into his palms.

Not a flicker danced through his eyes, nor a look of excitement grazed his face. "This is my gun."

"That's true," I laughed. "I've been working on it a bit. It's been a sort of present of mine."

"It's my gun," he repeated.

"Come on." I slipped my arm through his and hauled him upwards. My warm arm startled him. He seemed to be awake now. "Let's go outside. I want you to shoot something."

Seeming to like this idea, he briskly led me towards the back of the house where the edge of a forest was making its home. Aiming the gun at a tree, he pulled back the trigger, obviously excited to blow off some steam. What he didn't expect was the clicking noise of a gun, the puff of smoke and nothing more.

"What?" He gasped, tossing the gun on the ground. "What's wrong with my gun?"

"Nothing!" I laughed, picking it off the ground. "It's perfect, look!" We both glanced towards the tree, which sure enough had a precise hole in the center. Holmes looked the gun over before he finally met my eyes. "You're not angry are you?"

"Angry? Because you figured out what I couldn't?"

"I suppose you could put it that way."

"Well, Miss Adkins. You managed to partially silence my gun. How does that make you feel?"

I couldn't tell if he was angry or not, but I was thrilled that it worked. I hadn't been able to test it for a while and was pleased that my talents weren't entirely rusty. "Quite well, actually. I'm sorry if it makes you upset that I used your gun. Unfortunately, I have none of my own and I know how much you wanted to figure out a solution to it."

A dark gaze passed his eyes, and I thought he might storm back in the house. But, he didn't. He tucked the gun into his pocket and placed a warm hand on my shoulder. "Thank you," he said. I was surprised by the gesture, but accepted it all the same. "You put time and effort into something that didn't need it. And, you did it for me."

"I'd do anything for you." I wasn't planning on saying that. That was not part of the plan.

Holmes's lip curled up on one side. There was still a far-off look in his eyes, but he was happy enough. For the moment, anyway. "I hope you continue to say that, Miss Adkins. I sincerely hope you do."


	6. Biting The Bullet

**Hello everyone! If you have PBS, be sure to check out Sherlock: Season 2 showing on American television this Sunday. How very exciting! **

**PLEASE REVIEW! (: I look forward to reading your notes & thoughts.**

**-Mistro**

~.~.~.~.~

The next morning, I awoke to sunlight creeping in between the trees. One who normally lives in London is used to the sunshine rising behind blockaded buildings. The unsullied, countryside air was creeping in through a small crack on the bottom of the window, and I couldn't resist smiling to myself beneath the sheets.

Unsure of what time it was, I crawled out of bed to get a better idea. The sun was high, but not terribly so. That meant it was the early hours of the morning, and surely someone other than myself must be awake. Still in my nightgown, I groggily headed downstairs to perchance hear if someone else was up.

The hardwood floors were cold beneath my bare feet. They had been scratched with age, and I feared splinters entering my uncovered feet. As I quietly closed my door, my body compulsively turned to the left where Sherlock's bedchamber was. The door was closed tightly and no noise could be heard coming from the room. Either he was asleep after a long week of traveling, or he was already taking his breakfast. I assumed it was the first.

I carefully made my way downstairs while eyeing photographs on the wall lining the staircase. There were photos of two little boys, dressed perfectly quant and standing outside of a brick building. I smiled, instantly recognizing them in their youth. One had a slightly crooked nose and a toothy grin; clearly Mister Mycroft. The other was a bit smaller with a sour grimace on his face. Clearly, that was Sherlock. It astounded me that things hadn't changed between them.

My curious feet continued to lead me down the stairs. The layout of the house was unfamiliar to me, but I managed to find the kitchen and dining room area. If anyone was awake, they would most likely be taking their tea.

"Well, well, well! What a scandal!" Mycroft's booming voice was coming into view as I came closer. "I always knew she had something secretive lingering in her eye. Don't you agree, Stanley?" There was no response. "You know, I couldn't have said it better myself."

I knew I had finally reached the edge of the room, because I could hear forks scraping themselves against crumpet plates. Knowing that there was more than one man in that room, and remembering that I was still in my dressing gown, I carefully began to tiptoe back where I came from.

"Oh, Miss Adkins," A sing-song voice called out to me. "Why on Earth are you going back when you already carefully and patiently made your way down here?" Somehow I wasn't surprised that he had known about my presence. "Come and sit. There's breakfast on the table."

"I'm sorry, but I mustn't." I continued walking towards the staircase. "I fear I'm not dressed properly for the occasion."

"Not dressed properly?" His voice was full of genuine shock. "My dear, I don't care if you are in your sleeping gown. It's not like I don't know you wear one. Come in! There's an interesting story in the paper this morning."

Sighing heavily, I began to drag my feet back towards the dining room. I was just going to stick my head in and tell him that I really must get changed. I would never dream of showing my night dress to a man I was not married to! My fingers held the door frame as I poked my head in. "Good morning," I smiled. "I'm sorry, but I…" My voice began to slowly trail off as I noticed the state of my host. I first glanced at the bottom of the table, where his long legs were folded elegantly over one another. However, they were _completely bare_. My cheeks began to grow red as my eyes trailed further up his body. His torso was also bared, and it was obvious that he was not wearing anything… at all. "Oh!" I couldn't stop my hands from flying over my mouth. My head quickly shot out of view as utter embarrassment overtook me. I didn't take Mycroft Holmes as a pervert, but clearly something was not right.

"Is something wrong?" His voice remained perplexed, and I half wondered if he was losing his mind. "Do you feel ill?"

"I… Yes!" My legs flew me away from the spot. "I suddenly forgot that I have morning sickness!"

"Morning sickness…" I heard him mumble as I rushed up the stairs. "What a peculiar thing!"

My heart was pounding from the image. When I finally reached the top of the stairs, I had to stop to catch my breath. My hand was still clamped firmly over my mouth, and though I was startled, I found myself beginning to laugh. Realizing how uncivil that was, I tried to swallow my immaturity, but it was no use. I was suddenly erupting into tears of humor; completely and utterly confused at the state of things.

Holmes must have awoken from all of the commotion, because he was suddenly standing in his doorway, watching me cry from the ludicrous event. "Oh, Sherlock!" I patted tear away from my eyes. "If only you could understand my laughter."

Sherlock, who was also wearing his sleeping attire, carefully looked over my composure. Then, his calm face broke into one of horror. "You don't mean he's…" It took all of my strength not to smile. "Not again!" He hissed beneath his breath before marching down the stairs. At any minute, the brothers would begin to go at it.

I didn't know quite what to say or how to react. As startled as I wanted to be, I only found myself enjoying the day more. It wasn't the way I had expected to wake up to, and I hoped it would never happen again, but it was certain a story to tell.

Except, I would never tell anyone. Too much confusion would arise.

Still giggling, I made my way back into my room to get dressed for the day. I pulled out an old green dress, tossed it on without a care and made my way to a proper English breakfast. By the time I reached the kitchen, Holmes had sent Mycroft away to dress himself more properly. Holmes, on the other hand, avoided my eyes at every turn and eventually moved to eat his breakfast in a more private room. I knew he was uncomfortable, and that only made it all the more funny.

~.~.~.~.~.~

A little bit after the chimes rang noon, I came downstairs to find Mycroft gone and Holmes waiting in his spring coat. My body froze as I tried to gather what was happening. "Will you be comfortable without a coat?" Holmes asked bluntly. "I can fetch you one, if need be."

I had been outside before hand, casually reading my Moriarty books. The day was as nice as any in England, and I shook my head. "I don't need a coat, thank you." Another thought struck a chord within me. How did Mycroft have women's coats?

"Fantastic," he sighed, clapping his hands together. "Then, we'd best be off." His composure was a shaky one, but wherever we were going to, he was clearly anxious about it. Without another word, he exited through the front door and waited for me in the carriage. Deciding it would be best if I refrained my asking any questions, I followed him inside.

As the carriage began to ride off, I stared him down from the opposite seat. His fingers drummed against his lips and his eyes had trouble staying focused on his view outside. His other hand was twiddling at something in his pocket- my present.

"We're seeing Watson, aren't we?" I deduced. Sherlock's response was a long, hard look and nothing more. Clearly he was oozing enthusiasm. "You're awfully quiet about the whole thing. Aren't you the slightest bit excited?"

His body relaxed a bit as he glanced at me from the corner of his view. "_Excited_ isn't exactly the word I would use for description. I feel staggered over anything else." Watson often swore that after the last case, he would forever leave the world of crime solving. The fact that he was coming back, and without an argument, was indeed surprising.

"You don't think Mary's here, do you?" It suddenly dawned on me that she had something to ask, and I wondered if perhaps she had travelled with her fiancée. I highly doubted it. Mary tended to keep away from these sorts of things. I believe she dubbed them as nonsense.

Holmes snorted in relation to my question. That was answer enough. Mary was not with him.

The rest of the ride belonged to our inner thoughts. We remained silent, though my arduous heart could not keep my eyes from sending Holmes a glance with hope for a return. They were never received, and eventually my focus retreated to the incoming town. It was the same town as the bombing the day before. Police men were about, and many of the civilians seemed to be hiding from plain sight. The building was nothing more than a heap of rubble; many of its fallen pieces were being carted away on workmen's backs. "What an awful shame," I whispered to myself.

Holmes sighed in agreement as the carriage rolled to a stop. I couldn't keep my eyes turned away from the gloomy sight, though I knew it was not what I wanted to view. "Perhaps it'd be best if we didn't stay much longer." Holmes adjusted his hat over his uneasy eyes. "Mycroft will want to talk to us about the murders, and perhaps about the incident here."

"Do you think he will know anything on the matter?" We continued talking as we made our way towards the small hotel.

Sherlock nodded, digging his cane into the ground harder than necessary. His brows tightened with impatience. "Yes, he'll know what was going on. If he doesn't, he will soon enough."

I did not pester him to say any more on the subject. We came up towards the hotel with a loose wooden sign reading; 'The Queen's Inn'. It was a stereotypical name for such a small place, but one that certainly sounded elegant when writing to your family back home. Looking at the exterior, I doubt the place held as much elegance as the title.

We made our way inside, scuffing the dirt from our shoes on a faded, Indian tapestry. The small corridor was cozy, and a small guest book lay on a table near the entrance. I glanced down at the most recent guest, unsurprised to see a neatly scrawled, _John Watson_, lingering in its spot. A toothy grin broke out onto my face, and my stomach tightened itself in nervous anticipation.

"Look here, Sherlock," I said as I pointed to his penmanship. "That's John's handwriting. I would recognize it anywhere." Holmes nodded, squinting his eyes to get a better look. "Well, aren't you thrilled yet? You must be. It's like an old family reunion."

"I fear our family may be one of great oddity."

Both of our heads snapped towards the top of the carpeted stairs. Above the rickety steps, a handsome and lean John Watson stood, grinning. My legs twitched in their space, as they were eager to shoot up the stairs to pull my friend into a hug. "John Watson, if you do not come down to greet us this instant, I will sprint up there to embrace you!" My voice was bouncing off the small walls, causing my excitement to echo around the building.

"Renadale, you look as lovely as ever. You're practically glowing." That was a too far-fetched sentiment, but it made me smile none the less. He quickly made his way towards us, our arms instantly finding one another. "It is so wonderful to see you, my dear friend."

"You have no idea how much I've longed for you to be with us." Through all of my travel issues, relationship confusion, and inner turmoil, I was certainly glad to have my secret confidant back.

Watson passed me another soft smile before turning to his older friend. Sherlock's face was calm, though his lip curled into a half smile. "John," he said simply as he bowed his head. "It's always good to see you." John was about to speak when Sherlock cut him off. "How is the wedding going? Surely Mary is getting everything pristine like she must have it."

My smile dropped in an instant. Was it really the time to be criticizing Mary? Was there ever a time to do so in the first place? "Holmes…" I said warningly, placing a caring hand on his shoulder. He looked down at it with surprise. I think it calmed him a bit, because he then proceeded to take a heavy sigh and take his friend's hand affectionately.

"Like I said," Sherlock continued. "It's tremendous to have you back."

"It's nice to be back, I'll admit," Watson chuckled. "Mary seems to be in over her head with the whole wedding plans. We've settled where it will be and when it will be, but everything else is a secret to me. I don't even know half of the guest list, let alone where my stag party shall be."

"Stag party?" That caught Holmes's interest, though I doubt from excitement. "You want a stag party? I shall give you one."

Watson literally leaned back I surprise. He scoffed with disbelief and waited for Sherlock to say it was a joke. His friend did no such thing however, and Watson was left to snicker in genuine shock. "That's a surprisingly thoughtful thing for you to do."

Sherlock shrugged, lifting his cane dramatically. "I'm a thoughtful person, aren't I?"

John looked him over with confusion. "No… I cannot say that you are."

"Touché," Holmes smiled. "But I _am_ a surprising one."

"I suppose, though I hate to admit it, you are my closest friend." John sighed with a bit of trepidation. "I will leave you to the planning of my stag party, if you wish. But you have to promise me that you'll invite all of my friends. Even the ones from the hospital." Holmes groaned in disgust. "It cannot just be you and I."

Sherlock bowed as a promise. "You will see that I am as good at entertaining people as I am at making them leave." I chuckled. That was highly doubtable.

"Watson, did you have something to tell me?" I interrupted. "You mentioned in a letter that Mary had something to ask me."

Watson smiled excitedly. "I nearly forgot. Yes, she did ask me to tell you that when you returned to London, she would be most appreciative of your help." My eyes grew wide in disbelief. My help? I knew nothing about weddings, let alone the love her and John shared. I could not tell her any of the fabrics, colors, or flower types that were in season. There was absolutely nothing I could have been of use to her for. "Don't doubt yourself too soon," Watson clarified. "She believes in you. And, all of Mary's friends live far from London. She had claimed that she wishes to get to know you better, and hopes that you will at least consider her offer."

I nodded, still surprised by the question. "Of course I will do whatever I can. Mary is a dear woman, and one that is very close to your heart. As your friend, and hers, I hope I can scrape up some ideas to the best of my abilities."

"Finely put, Miss Adkins," Holmes smirked. "Finely put indeed. You will make a terrific wedding planner." Just the word made my head spin. Hopefully I wasn't going to be that much of a help to Mary. Certainly she was capable of doing most on her own, and just in need of a second opinion. I guess I would have to find out.

"So," Holmes said, bringing me back to reality. "You've read yourself up about the certain situation we're in?"

"Of course," Watson sighed, scratching his forehead with frustration. "You can't miss it. It's in all of the newspapers. No one suspects anything seriously dangerous though. They're saying that the killer has disappeared, and that the bombing was an accident."

"And?" Holmes lifted a brow. "What do you think?"

John stared at him for a moment, hesitant that he would give the wrong answer. "Well, if I'm honest, I think they're connected. The men killed were too close in government positions to have just been randomly murdered." Sherlock smiled. That was just what he wanted to hear.

"Yes, but what kind of position were they in?" Both of the men turned to me with dark eyes. "I mean, what sort of business where all of the men involved with?"

Watson looked at Holmes, and vise versa. They were debating who would try and explain it to me; the slow one. Sherlock finally spoke up. "War, Miss Adkins," An eerie unsettlement lingered behind his words. "These were men of war."

~.~.~.~.~

The three of us figured a stroll around the town would be best. The day was glorious, the sun was hot and the breeze was friendly. Despite all of these wonderful elements, I felt a bitter sensation in my chest as I listened in on the men's conversation.

"Well, I remember he was particularly a fine chemist. He could create bombs," Watson's voice lowered as he explained. "His parents were always afraid he would blow up the house. He was renowned in France for his skills, however… Until the government locked him away and made him work for them." They were speaking of Pierre-Lavant. "The man was a French celebrity. People forgot about him after a while, once the theatre popularity began to grow. Science wasn't of interest anymore."

"And the ones in London…" Holmes was still speaking to Watson, but it seemed as though he were really directing his words towards his own thoughts. "They were traders."

"They traded supplies to build weapons. Metal, lead, and powder. They were the kings of those industries." Watson peeled off his hat and dabbed his sweating forehead with his hanky. Watching him do so made me aware of how horribly hot my gown was getting. A nearby bench called my name, and without telling the gentleman, I stopped for a short break. They continued their walk, not noticing that I had slipped out of view. I could sit for a while and walk to catch up with them before they noticed my absence.

My toes scuffed the dirt that lied around the sides of the seat. My slippers were getting dusty, but they were dusty as it was, and I saw no harm in it. I began to sketch out a pattern with my feet. My mind was thinking about the case, but my heart was thinking about something else.

I stared down at what I had drawn, surprised to see that I had scrawled a large 'S' into the ground. Curiously, I raised my brow. S? For Sherlock? I laughed and kicked the soil away. Whoever was on my mind was not as important as the men who would be dying from innocence. The case had to be my priority. Not romance.

Perhaps my mother was right. Reading so many novels was probably unhealthy for my sensitive soul.

Time had passed too quickly and I knew it was time to be rejoining the men. I hauled myself from the chair and brushed invisible dust from my skirt. My feet began to follow the footsteps of my friends along the trail.

"When love gets you fast in her clutches…"

My entire body became a heap of lead. I could not move my feet, arms or eyes and I feared that suddenly my heart had stopped beating.

"And you sigh for your sweetheart away…"

My eyes shut in hope that I would be transported to a new world. _Not now, _I prayed. _Not here._

"Old Time cannot move without crutches…"

I wanted to hate the voice. My hands were shaking; I wanted to hate it so terribly.

"Alack! How he hobbles Well-a-day!"

The song verse was finished. Before any further notes could spread from his foreign lips, I spun around to face the tenor. There he was; tall, unspoiled, and… dare I admit it… even more handsome and masculine than he had been years ago.

I was not about to dote on his features. He smiled as he approached me, but he had to notice the fury in my eyes and the tightening of my fists. If he didn't, he was a fool. Oh, but he had been a fool already, so it did not take me by surprise. "Renadale Adkins," his American voice cooed. "I must admit, I-"

I couldn't take it! I didn't want to hear another word! I knew I had written to him, but for what? There were plenty of men who could have helped us besides him. Brining him to Chichester was a disaster; a mistake I prayed I could undo. Until then, I had to make sure he knew that I was not going to be played with. He wasn't going to continue singing our song like he still loved me they way he had. His singing was done. It was my turn to let him know who was in charge.

With a sudden burst of pride, my fist flung itself from the side of my body, and redirected its course towards his nose. The strength came from nowhere, but the hard punch and cracking nose was also unexpected. I watched with wide eyes as Thomas's firm body tumbled backwards. His fingers were gripping his nose tightly, but his lips could not resist an astonished smile.

"There's the Renadale I know."


	7. Firelight

**Ello lovelies! Thanks for the comments last chapter! I didn't expect so many, but I was THRILLED! :3 You guys are the best readers in the entire world, and I wouldn't want to write for anyone else but you. **

**KrazyCookie: Thanks so much for the sweet review! I understand what it's like to not review- especially if you're too swept up in the story that you HAVE to get to the next chapter haha! But I'd love to hear from you again soon! Keep reading! (: Hope you like the update.**

**BlackRose: Oh, I'm thrilled you enjoyed them! I hope they keep entertaining you! I'll try not to let ya down. (;**

**PhantaTheatre: Ooo, I'm glad you liked naked Mycroft. I know Rena didn't. Haha! So much love! **

**Please review and all that jazz! **

**Infinite Xs and Os,**

**Mistro- consulting awesomeness person**

~.~.~.~.~.~

"My God, Rena…" Watson craned his body over the injured man with precision, being gentle enough not to harm his damaged nose any further. "Where did you require such strength as this in the first place?" I stood in the corner of Watson's hotel room, silently biting away at my fingernails. Old habits die hard.

Thomas was sitting in an old, wooden chair placed in the center of the room. It was as if he were a specimen on display for everything to see. 'Come, see what the horrible Miss Adkins has done! Come see her unlady-like manners and rude reunion greetings!' Just thinking about it would send my mother into a tizzy; particularly since Thomas had been a sign of marriage for me. He was a Godsend to my mother, but that had all failed with the spring rains. Well, her dreams didn't happen, but then again, neither did mine.

"I apologize, Mister Smith." My voice was hardly audible. Unfortunately, he caught the apology.

"No matter." He turned his head over his shoulder to get a better look at me. My fingers were glued to my lips, but I stopped biting them for a moment while we locked eyes. Somehow, behind his bandaged nose and embarrassed reputation, he managed to smile. I could read what was lingering behind his watch._ It's been a while since you've laid hands on me anyway._

Disgusted, I headed towards the door. I wasn't about to stay in a room with my first love, my current love, and the mocking sound of the voices inside my head. Even though we had just taken one, another walk sounded mighty fine. "Wait!" Someone called out behind me. I heard the scooting of a chair and knew that it had to be the last person I wanted to speak up. "Are you going on a walk?" I shivered at the pronunciation of his 'r's. "If you are, I'd like to accompany you." Against my better judgment, I said nothing. There was no yes, so I wasn't saying he could come. However, I couldn't choke up the nerve to reject him either. Quietly, I turned to get a better look at him.

He had grown even taller, though I didn't think that could be possible. My head reached his shoulders and I was thankful that my eyes met his chest and not his face. His hair had been tamed since the last time, but beneath the trim cut you could see the suave curls that were sprouting up as time passed. His eyes were as sparkling as ever, and as I allowed myself a quick glance at them, I saw stories that needed to be told. There were stories during the years we were apart just dying to be told. No doubt they were great ones; he was always a master story teller.

Thomas Smith was a true and perfect gentleman. He was older than me by a few years; five to say the least and seven to say the most. I could hardly recall his exact age, but none of it mattered anymore. Those matters were unimportant. He was here only there account of business.

"Miss Adkins…" Another voice took me by surprise as Thomas and I began to leave. We both turned our heads towards the opposite corner of the room, where a flushed Sherlock sat fiddling with his cane. His eyes met mine with calmness. "Shall I tell my brother Mycroft to expect you at dinner?"

The beating of my heart was like a pebble skipping across water. It was inconsistent, and then it fell. The presence of Sherlock had somehow escaped me. How could I forget he was there? Thomas was not going to have that affect over me. I refused to let him. I nodded firmly before swinging the door shut in aggravation. "You can tell Mister Holmes that I will be there within the quarter hour."

~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale, wait…"

"Stop calling me that," I hissed as my feet practically broke out into a sprint. "You have no right to show up here and start acting like we are still friends… or whatever we were."

"We left on a bad note?" Thomas scoffed, scrunching his brows together. "Renadale, I told you thousands of times. The timing was bad; the situation was bad. Nothing would have worked in our favor. Your situation was-"

"My situation?" I switched my direction and instead began walking towards him. Our noses were nearly touching, and not at all in the romantic, Jane Austen style way. There was no heated passion whatsoever. "Are you speaking of our distance issue, or is this about my income? My dowry wasn't big enough for your American stands, is that the case?" Thomas couldn't seem to reply. That was one thing that certainly hadn't changed about him. Whenever I was right, he failed to even try to stand up for himself. "Save your words, Thomas. I long to hear your silence."

My proud feet turned away again, but it wasn't long before he was chasing after my heels. His long legs beat me, and against my will he was standing right before me. "Look, I did not write to you a few days ago. _You_ wrote to _me_. You told me you needed me help, and here I am. What more do you want?" He was breathless, and the bandage across his nose seemed to be peeling off from the newfound stress. "I cannot understand why you treat me so harshly… after all this time." I could have sworn I was so furious. Did he forget the things he had done to me? To my heart?

"You cannot understand…" I whispered. "…because you never did. You never understood Thomas, and that was exactly the problem."

Thomas's fists found his hips as his head tiredly lulled backwards. "Renadale…" He closed his eyes. "You got my letters, didn't you?"

The letters. I had pushed them so far from my mind that it took me a minute to even remember his penmanship. "I got your letters." My nose turned upwards. "But they were not what I wanted."

Thomas took a step closer towards me, his eyes genuinely filled with sorrow. "What did you want, Renadale? You were so quiet back then. You would have never told me if I were to have asked."

"You know what I wished for." My voice shattered into pieces. I knew I must have looked pathetic, but that's how I felt. There was no hiding it. "I wanted… I wanted _you_, but you never asked." Thomas could not argue with that. That was the full-blown truth, and if he would have denied it, he would have looked like even more than an idiot. He would be a disgrace for lying about something so obvious. "Look. You are here on business. That is why I wrote to you, and that is what you will help us with."

"But, if I could only-"

"Thomas." My tone was firm. I wasn't about to punch him again, but I needed to continue to remind him that I wasn't going to let him walk all over me. "No, you will stay in town and speak to us about the symbols. That is all you will do. Then, you can make your stay here as long as you wish, but you will not see any more of me."

Dark shadows crossed over his face though the sun continued shining brightly. His lips pursed into a pout, and I could have sworn his eyes were glossier than before. "Very well," he said firmly. "I will do anything you ask of me."

"Thank you," I sighed. "Then, on that note, you will dine with us tonight. You will tell my partners about what you know." Thomas's face lit up with shock, but he did need to explain his knowledge as fast as possible. The sooner, the better. If I allowed him to dine with us at least once, it might settle nervous tension and show Sherlock that I was completely over him.

Completely.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Thomas had followed us back to Mycroft's manor, and Watson had decided to decline and stay at the hotel. We would see him bright and early the next morning. I hoped that Thomas would be able to give us the information we needed and be out by nightfall.

That was unlikely, but a girl can dream.

Upon arriving, Thomas became the symbol of elegance. "What a charming home this is!" He declared loudly, no doubt for Mycroft to overhear and come see who this courteous young man was. "The architecture is just great, isn't it? The wood would be admired in America. It's starting to get popular around where I do my work."

"Oh, is it?" I scoffed. "Who knew that wood would ever be popular?" Thomas shot me a glare, but I only returned it with a quick batting of my lashes. Two could play at that game.

"Perhaps you would like to show me these symbols you wrote me about?" Thomas's hands dug their way into their pockets; a habit I noticed many arrogant men had. I didn't see the point in it when there was clearly nothing he needed from his trousers. "After all, you _were_ the one who wrote me."

Smoke was coming out from my ears. "I did write you to ask you that. Please," I cooed sourly. "Wait here with Mister Holmes. I'll go and get the paper from my room."

My feet stomped up the stairs noisily and with purpose. I wanted him to know that frenzied tension was still in the air, despite my walking away. After grabbing the paper from my desk with a tightened fist, I made my way back downstairs. The men stood exactly where they had before, and I was certain they hadn't uttered a word to one another. Or, Thomas did, but Sherlock replied with a witty response that silenced our guest.

"Here," I mumbled, handing him the paper. For a second as I passed it to him, our fingers lingered over one another's. Thomas's thumb gently brushed against the back of my hand. I wanted to be furious, but he acted as though nothing had happened. When I looked up, Holmes's eyes were staring bitterly at our hands.

Just what I needed.

"What does it mean?" I asked impatiently.

"Oh, yes! You do have an interesting character on your hands, don't you?" Thomas chuckled. I didn't see how a murderer was very funny, but dark things had always interested Thomas. Even if he wore bright suits and had eyes that sparkled like the sun, his mind was always a bit warped. That's why he studied remains of dead people. "This symbol is absolutely known to me. I'll admit that I haven't seen it in years, however, and the last time I did was in Bavaria."

"Bavaria," Holmes muttered to himself. "Weishaupt. Yes, that all makes sense, doesn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" I mumbled sheepishly. I didn't want to admit that I was lost, but of course I was. I wasn't about to fall behind their genius.

"Adam Weishaupt was a former Jesuit. People hated him. They called him an anarchist, though I believe Mister Jefferson called him a philanthropist. Of course Mister Jefferson would say that, however. He himself was quite the libertarian."

"What does any of that have to do with the symbols?"

Thomas sighed as if he were talking to an imbecile. "Weishaupt invented a secret society. It's a culture that caused so much trouble.. In fact, it causes hysteria, so it's hardly ever brought up. If it is, it's a sensitive and sore subject."

"What group was it?" I frowned, still lost beyond compare.

Holmes beat him to it. "The Illuminati."

I knew I had heard that name before. I never would have guessed that the symbols had anything to do with them, but then again, I knew nothing about the organization. "Weishaupt formed the group in the late 1700s in order to gather men with Masonic ideals to make the world a better place." As depressing at it sounds, I knew that was an unattainable and impractical idea. Thomas continued, despite my grunt of disapproval. "It started out slowly, because to join the group you had to study vigorously."

"By 1784 however, most of Europe was involved," Holmes muttered, glancing at the symbols with a keen eye. "The men liked the idea of gaining power through intellect. It was a rare time, and probably one of the best, but a secret organization was not looked upon highly."

"The men, however, were opposed to many of the religious ideals and politics of their time. So, they devised a secret form of communication. For example…" Thomas waved the sheet of paper in my face. "They used code names for one another as well. Weishaupt was Spartacus. That tells you, plain as day, what he thought of himself." Holmes grunted in agreement.

"What does this matter? Why should this be important to the killings?"

"I'm not sure about that," Thomas sighed. "I'm no detective, so I can't look into your case too much. What I _can_ tell you is that this killer is looking to overthrow certain people in government. He's obviously already getting a jump-start on that." I nodded heavily. Clearly. "One thing the Illuminati are accused for is that they started the political overthrows in France during the late 1780s. Clearly, whoever this murderer is is out for war and bloodshed."

I thought about what we had discussed earlier, and how all of the men were men of war. Did this have anything to do with it? Did the Illuminati praise combat and total power? It was a dark turn of events, especially since the men who created it wanted to run the word with philosophy.

I thought momentarily about Professor Moriarty. He was a smart man, a business man, educated and with power. He used his knowledge for good, and shared it to the word with his books. I wished more men could be like him, but wishes hardly ever seemed to come true.

"What about the markings?" I asked. "What do they say?"

Thomas shook his head sadly. "I cannot say. The language is foreign to me and to many others. I think it's of little importance. What you do know is that the murderer is most likely looking to attack the government, which obviously he already has. Somewhere in his mind, he believes that his ideas are worth listening to. That, or his boss believes it to be so."

"You think he works for a higher power?"

Thomas laughed darkly. "No single man could construct or purchase a bomb on his own accord. And I promise you; the bombing in the town was connected to the bookshelf murders. I don't know how, but somehow they were."

A sudden clapping took us both by surprise. Holmes applauded Thomas on a job well done. "And you said you weren't a detective," he winked. "Sounds like you're on your way."

~.~.~.~.~

_Scraaaaaape. _Mycroft's spoon was scooping up the last of his soup, while I stared at the complete bowl in front of me. Ever since we had sat down to dinner, and the eyes of Thomas bore right into mine as he sat directly across from me, I had lost my appetite. We were done talking about the symbols, so his focus was right back towards me. "So, Mister Smith," Mycroft smiled as he pushed his empty bowl away from him. "What caused you to come near Chichester?"

"It's historic," he began. "There were many things here that I could research that were of interest. Archeology is a habit more than a job, I fear." Mycroft laughed, though I failed to find the humor in it. "Well, while I was making my way along the English shores a few years ago…" Something caught in his throat and he coughed. However, his eyes didn't fail to meet mine briefly, sending me into a world of flashbacks. Unfortunately, Holmes had caught on as well. "…I just sort of fell in love with the place."

"Yes, but you had to go back to your homeland, is that it?" Mycroft was instantly onto his next food; vegetables, each one finding their way quickly into his mouth. Thomas looked startled by his hunger, but nodded from politeness. "Aha, but you failed to take Miss Adkins with you."

All of the life drained from Thomas's face. The drink he was currently sipping found its way out of his mouth in surprise. Embarrassed, he dabbed his mouth his napkin while attempting to avoid everyone's eyes. "I'm… not quite sure what you mean."

"Oh, it's your pupils," Mycroft smiled as he tapped his temple accordingly. "They dilate every time you happen to glance across the table."

I was glad I had hardly eaten, or else I fear something might have come back up. This was not good. Thomas did not like his flaws being pointed out so much in a day, and I feared his aggressive reaction. "Excuse me," Thomas was finally able to stare Mycroft in the face. Our host was completely oblivious to the fury lingering behind his eyes. "I think this a conversation unsuitable for a dinner table, let alone anyone not involved in the party."

My hand gripped my silverware even tighter. "Party?" I laughed sarcastically. "There is no party. There's not even a tête-à-tête that needs to be discussed." Thomas's face softened a bit by my words, but my anger was only boiling. "I'm awfully sorry, Mister Holmes," I whispered as I shoved my chair backwards. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling up to dinner this evening."

Mycroft and Thomas both eyed me with drooping lips. Another loud scrape grabbed my attention, and I was startled to see Holmes standing up in unison. We all three gazed at him curiously, and once again, I admit that I had forgotten his presence. Ironically, his presence was exactly what I needed to calm myself.

"Sherlock…" I whispered, unsure of what his next move was.

He opened and closed his mouth for a while, unsure of what to say. After casually sleeking back his hair, he quietly exited the room without a word. Mycroft looked shocked for a moment, but began to laugh once his appearance was totally gone. Happily, he raised his glass to imaginary friends. "A toast!" He chuckled. "To wonderful evenings with friends!"

The last image I saw before joining Holmes was Mycroft laughing and sipping his champagne, with Thomas's face buried into his hands.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"Sherlock?" My voice was quiet as I knocked on his door. It had been about an hour, and I waited until the superfluous guest was gone. Holmes had disappeared into his room and I heard nothing out of him but a few minor bangs. Curious as to what he was doing, and desperately wishing for some good company, I allowed myself to peek in.

Sherlock slowly pulled open the door after a moment, a loaded gun in his other hand. "Oh!" He seemed positively surprised to see me. "Miss Adkins, what a charming surprise. I assume you wish for some more delicate company after tonight's events?"

He was mocking me, but it had been so long since the two of us had been alone, I had to smile. "I'm not sure that you could be described as delicate… But your company could do me an awful lot of good, I'm sure." He seemed startled by this. "That is, if you don't mind, of course."

Dramatically, he swung his arm out further, opening the bedroom door with a swoosh. He wanted us to go into his bedroom? Alone? My palms began to sweat. It wasn't as though we hadn't been alone together before, but never in anyone else's home. "Miss Adkins," he said, noticing my fear. "My brother sleeps on the other half of the house, and our servant Stanley is of an age uncalculated, that if he were to see anything, he would perchance realize the situation in a fortnight." _Situation? _What situation was there going to be?

Flustered, I readily made my way inside the room. I just wanted to be in… no turning back, no regrets. _Oh, stop it! Why are you acting like something more is going to happen?_ "I need to talk to you," I blurted out as Holmes closed the door. My heart was getting the better of me, and my head was throbbing. "I need to talk to you about him. My mind will be wrapped up in itself for weeks, and I must get my feelings out so we can move on with the case." Without acceptance, Holmes quietly sat down in a chair near an ornate bedside chest. The elegance of the room somehow only made me quake more. "Where do I begin…?"

Holmes carefully lifted an eyebrow. "Out of observation, when common folk speak of these sorts of things, they seemed to start with how they met…"

"Right!" I laughed, dabbing my burning forehead with back of my hand. "Of course they start with that… How they meet."

~.~.~.~.~

"_Renadale, this is the archeologist Thomas Smith. He's traveled from America to be here. I've asked for his company and help because of possible traces of medicine they used in the previous ages." Renadale's father smiled his typical welcoming grin. _

"_It's… an honor to meet you." The young girl, barely twenty, was overwhelmed by the charming foreigner. His height prevailed upon her, and his hair twisted like music notes with curls as dark as chocolate. _

"_No, no, the honor is all mine. Your father told me through note that you are a prevailing inventor." His pearly-white teeth were unable to be hidden through their small talk. "The world needs more confident women, particularly in the engineering field." _

_Such talk from a man! And in their age of living! He would have been ridiculed in London if he said those words, but in America, Renadale was told things were very different. She found herself utterly charmed… an experience she never had in her life. _

"_Come," Thomas urged them. "The hills further out are just stunning. You may want to hold onto your breath. When you see the sight, you will sigh with such awe that I fear you may lose it!"_

~.~.~.~.~

"Back then, he… he spoke with such elegance and grace. I felt like I was in the presence of a Lord or Duke." Holmes smiled, which was the complet opposite gesture I expected. "Now he tries, but I was not made to be won twice."

"No?" Holmes's brows swiftly rose and fell as he lit his pipe up. "Perhaps that is a key note within this case." With a puff of smoke exhaled, he leaned further back in his chair to await the rest of the story.

"Are you trying to deduce my feelings?" I laughed, almost bitterly. "There are only facts. There's nothing that needs to be solved here, so how can you view it as a case?"

Holmes paused for a moment to properly eliminate his tobacco. That meant I was in for a long explanation. Carefully, he made his way over towards me, his eyes drilling into my face. "When you brother noted the pupil change in the guest's eyes, he failed to mention one thing; your own."

_You've got to be kidding me._

"That is too bold of an assumption." My eyes narrowed into slits, and I hoped he was even slightly frightened.

"Is it?" Holmes's fingers suddenly reached for my hand, which he held onto for a while. "Then why are your hands so damp? Surely it can't be because of my presence. When you started speaking of this friend of yours, I watched as your fingers tightly intertwined one another's." We were still holding hands, and I could not tear my gaze away from our locked palms. As he spoke, I found my own fingers trailing over the back of his hand; soft skin taking me by surprise. Holmes seemed too distracted with his false deduction that he hardly noticed how much agony I was in. "Surely, if you were confident in your bashed affections for him, you would not be so nervous when you spoke of them."

I shut my eyes and allowed my fingers to continue tracing the creases in his palm. Did he not know what he was doing to me? Could he not tell that his arrogance, self esteem, and unending ignorance for the obvious things were so horribly charming to me, that I might explode? Holmes was a detective, but he needed to continue his practice upon my heart.

"Tell me what happened next," Holmes urged as our spacing became even shorter. "I'm curious as to what happened the first time you were alone."

~.~.~.~.~

_Under the canvas tent, a fire was cracking away as the evening droned on. The scientists and doctors, researchers and physicians had all gone to sleep. Renadale could hardly stop thinking of the stolen glances Thomas had given her throughout their first day, and instead made her thoughts flow by the firelight._

"_It's sort of romantic, isn't it?" A voice whispered behind her. Surprised, she turned to see Thomas, his face red from the flames. "The firelight, I mean. There's something magical about it that escapes me…"_

"_Yes, I suppose there is," Renadale smiled as she stared into the burning wood. She was calm around him, even though she had just been daydreaming about their second day together. "It's almost like you can do whatever you want when it is lit, and then it just… disappears."_

_Thomas laughed and sat down next to her. "I couldn't have said it better myself."_

~.~.~.~.~

"And then what?" Holmes mumbled. My hand was still on top of his, but I swore his fingers had brushed mine with acknowledgement. "Did you find yourself drawn to him?"

Embarrassed, I pulled my hand away. "Of course not," I whimpered, ashamed that he even though that. "You know that I was not. You know that I have never given my heart to anyone in full, but you. My lips were my own until you, and now I fear that somehow they will never belong to anyone ever again." I had not planned for that moment to be the moment when all hell broke loose in my soul, but apparently it was. I couldn't have Holmes thinking falsely anymore. I had to let him know how I felt. "You see, when we were in France… when I saw that note from Irene, I swore you had been seeing her. There were things going on my mind that kept me away from you, and not entirely on my own accord. You were cold at points, and distant. Sometimes you would be frustrated and not even acknowledge my presence. In fact, I believe before we left there was a time where you did not speak to anyone for three days straight!"

Holmes was trying to interject, but my suddenly powerful voice would not let him. Watson was right. I was suddenly acquiring strengths I never knew I had.

"And what of it all? Why should I worry about these things when I know that nothing would ever happen with us? Nothing would become of us being together, and I fear that you have known this all along. That is why you have been treating me as a stranger lately, and perhaps I too have known this subconsciously. We have grown apart in ways that I should have cursed three months ago!"

My breath was entirely gone, but I felt the better for it. Groaning with agitation and sleep deprivation, I found myself sprawled against a loveseat. Though my thoughts were disconnected, I somehow said all that I needed to say. Above me, bullet holes were drawn into the ceiling. That was the noise I had heard earlier, but it was softer than an actual gunshot because he was using my gift. Carved neatly into the roof was a giant, 'R'.

"That's not…" I started, but failed to finish.

Holmes scratched his head with the gun as we both stared up at the damage. Somehow, looking at the letter made me feel beautiful. It was just a letter, and could have easily meant anything. But, I hoped it was the truth I wanted. I hoped he had not shot my title into the ceiling because he wished for me to be painted with bullet holes.

"If you're thinking gruesomely, you shouldn't," Holmes clarified. "It helped me to think, somehow. My violin is not nearby and somehow, I…"

"You decided to shoot my capital into the ceiling."

"Precisely." His lip drooped into a frown after realizing his admittance. "Well, your letter was not intended."

"No?"

"No."

My lips jutted out like a pout. I couldn't tell if I was curious about something, or if I was sad about his denial. "Do you think it was a mistake?" I mumbled, never taking my eyes off him. "Was it wrong of me to bring him here, when I knew my heart was still sore?"

Sherlock took a moment to answer. I expected a curt and logical reply. "It was not illogical," he stated simply. "He was the best man who could help us with our case. You did not know that your heart was still bitter." I nodded. That made me feel better. "The mistake was ever letting that man touch your soul so firmly in the first place."

That was unexpected.

My hands pushed me up from the couch. "What did you just say?"

"Let's look at this from a logical standpoint, shall we?" Holmes slammed his cane down with a clang, causing me to jump. He swiftly made his way over to the window, where he pulled back the curtain to let a shimmer of moonlight pour into the room. I watched as he peered sternly outside. "You met a man many years ago, and were bewitched for the first time in your life. Your innocence was remarkable, because no matter how many times he tried to win your heart, you were afraid to let him have it." His lips curled into a smile. "Even though you swore you love him."

"How could you possibly know that?" I stuttered, shocked. "You have no idea what my heart was like back then."

"Oh, but I do, Renadale." He turned towards me with nothing but frustration in his eyes. I had no idea what caused him to become this way, but I was determined to end it. "When I first met you, you were a bit more headstrong than you thought. You claimed you were a hermit, but I could see that you longed for, _thirsted_ for adventure. Nothing in your eyes said that you were held down by a man. In fact, you would be the one to hold them down." Was I really that stubborn? "Yet, when…" He froze. "When… you showed your affection towards me-"

"And vise versa," I firmly reminded.

"… and vise versa, you were hesitant. You were afraid. That is a clear sign that you had dignity and pride to refuse a man, but were afraid to accept another. Therefore, I instantly gathered the assumption that you had your heart broken. Not more than once, however. If you were to have swooned more than once, the firmness in your stance would be more notable."

My hands were shaking. My fingers were fiddling with the hem of my dress. I didn't care that my skirt was lifted above my ankles; I just needed some way to calm my nerves. The more Holmes talked, the more I wanted him to stop.

Not the first time that had happened.

"So, let's continue the story, shall we?" _Please, God, no._ "You met via your father, and the young architect stole your heart. But, oh, he had to go back to the promise land. He begged for you to come with him, but would not marry you." Holmes turned towards me with a smile echoing that of a Glasgow. "An inconstant man such as himself, of course, left you without so much as a warning. He stole your heart and never seemed to return it."

My arms were lifting me off the seat the louder Sherlock's voice became. With every passing word, he got more and more furious. I was so afraid he would fly off the handle and a naked Mycroft would burst in, asking what in the blazes was going on. As he spoke, his chest continued to rise with anger, though I couldn't understand why he was upset. He was not the one to be bothered. It was I, yet he seemed to be taking it worse than me.

"Such a man does not deserve your tears," he spat furiously as he whipped his cane against the window curtain in frustration. "He does not deserve an idle second in your mind that makes you feel pain. No memory of him should harm you or make you feel weak; it should only make you stronger." At this point, I was standing right before him, trying to soothe him, but I don't think he even took notice of my presence. "If anything were to happen again, you must promise that you-"

"Holmes…" My hands slowly reached out towards his face. My cold fingers hit his equally freezing skin with bewilderment. His words instantly stopped as his eyes snapped towards mine. His trance was broken and he seemed confused beyond repair. "Sherlock," I smiled as he dawned back into reality.

"Miss Adkins," he sighed, shutting his eyes. "I've been so foolish lately. My mind isn't straight."

I wished he would have kept his eyes open to see my comforting smile. "It never really was."

"No. I'm afraid you're all too right on that note." My stomach tightened as I let my fingers rest upon his rough skin. "Renadale, I do mean that, you know. He should not bother you. I'm not entirely sure of your past, but I don't think he is a man to be trusted a second time."

"Maybe I should listen to you…" I took an inch closer, letting my fingers press further against his skin. His eyes grew a bit in surprise, but he did not pull away. "Maybe you're right about him. After all, you are a detective, and he did break my heart once before."

Holmes's eyes peered down at my fingers from the corner of his eye. He sighed after a moment of thinking, scrunching his brows like a child. "That's true."

"But, then again…" My fingers began to fall from his face. "So did you, didn't you?"

I didn't mean it entirely as a serious conversation, but more as a joke. Something in my words struck Sherlock Holmes, however, and any hope of calming him down seemed to fly out the window. "Renadale," he quickly grabbed my falling wrists. "You must not repeat that statement. If anything happened between Irene and I, it is distant. Her knowledge matches mine at certain points, and I will admit that she impresses me to no end. However, her cunning and common attacks to ruin me are not exactly something that would betwixt my heart."

It was my turn for my eyes to grow wide. "Sherlock, I was only joking!" My laugh was nervous as his desperate grip tightened on my wrists. "You can calm yourself a bit. There's nothing to be so firm about. I understand you, and I believe you."

His fingers fell away from my bones, which I rubbed in hopes to regain the circulation. "Once again, I think I should apologize." Holmes's face was red even in the moonlight.

"That's alright," I smirked. "I forgive you."

"Do you?"

For some reason, the image of Sherlock in the bottom of the sewers suddenly occurred to me. I saw his beaten and ripped body, hanging by an inch of life. The image of his shattered face and pale complexion made me suddenly nauseas. After shifting away from my memory, my arms flung themselves towards his neck, where they clung trough a long silence.

"I can't help it," I whispered into his shoulder. "No matter how upset I get with you, or how much I want to leave this profession, I can't." He must not have been startled by my sudden hug, because he allowed me to nuzzle my nose further into his shoulder. I couldn't see his face, but his hands gently rested against my back. He was obviously at ease. "You're like a magnet, Sherlock Holmes." My voice was barely audible as I rested my forehead against his warm neck. "You draw me in."

"Renadale Adkins…" He muttered into my hair; an affectionate act I had not seen for ages. We both just needed to be held. We need a quick reminder that we mattered to someone, and were not always going to be outcasts. Or, if we were, we would be them together. His voice dropped to a whisper, as though what he was about to say next was meant to be for himself. "You cannot understand the gravity in which you sway my affections."

It took all of the power within me not to laugh with joy. My eyes quietly made their way up towards the murdered ceiling.

I think I could take a guess.


	8. Dwelling on the Past

**Tada! Another chapter is posted! Hopefully the wait wasn't too long. I think it was the fastest in awhile? Anyway…**

**xRDJ: Thanks! I'm so glad you liked it! Did you really almost cry? Haha, no judgement if you did. I only feel more successful. Oh, the power of words! (; **

**Teacup: Thanks for reviewing! :D I can't wait to read yours! When you post it, I'll be sure to give you a shout out and get everyone to read it in an Author's Note.**

**teo4ever: You are so sweet! Thank you so much for taking time to review! I appreciate what you said about letting things take their own course. I feel the same way. (: **

**Lucky: Mmmhmmm. **

**England: KIDNAPPED? *ideas start flowing through Mistro's head* No, no, I have to calm down. That might be too dramatic right now… But maybe in the future… *evilly rubs hands together***

**fanofsmallville: Hey, thanks very much! I'm glad you enjoy Thomas's role in the story. It's always hard for people to get used to new characters, I think, especially when it presents a new love interest! (:**

**~Mistro**

~.~.~.~.~.~

My father always said that the stars did not only tell our destinies, but that they also had a way of guiding us in our endeavors. He said our eyes were reflected into the twinkling lights of the heavens, and that if we looked up to them for guidance, they would surely light our path. It was a comical thing for an educated man to be saying, but my father knew that you only live once and you may as well believe in whatever you damn well please while you're alive.

I was telling Sherlock all of this as we sat ourselves closer to the fire. Neither of us could seem to sleep and we declared that a talk might do both of us some good. After setting up a fire downstairs, I was more than ready to talk personal with Sherlock Holmes.

"My grandmother was of some power, I suppose you could say." Holmes had decided to open up a bit to me about his family. It was the first time he had ever done it, and why he chose to do it then, I hadn't the slightest idea. Perhaps it was the firelight. After all, it is a magical thing. "She was the sister of Vernet, the French artist."

Humiliation covered my face. "I'm afraid I don't know any artist by that name. I'm sure they're superb, but you see, I don't find myself able to attend many museums." Holmes simply smiled. He knew that already. "Why do you speak of her, though? What of your mother?"

Instantly the smiled faded from his face. It was like the fire soaked it up and burned it with all of his emotions. "My mother was a sweet woman. Too sweet for me, I can tell you that much."

I could tell that he was finished with stories of his maternal past, and my heart reached towards him all the more for it. Like a dog being pulled, my hand lurched from my lap and found his knee. His face was golden from the flames as he turned to look at me. The heat seemed even more powerful with the complex emotions lingering in the room. "You should never say such a thing. You are a very sweet man; an honest man and a good man."

His eyes flickered over my face, as though he were struggling to believe my words. After a moment or two, he smiled and leaned back in his chair. My hand slipped off in defeat; I would never know if my words affected Sherlock Holmes or not. But, for now, I would pretend that they did.

"How is it coming along?"

"Pardon?" I questioned, cocking my head sideways.

"Your book," he explained. "I noticed you reading it the other day." His voice dropped to a tart murmur. "Reading it…? I'm not sure if you could call it that. 'Devouring' is more like it."

A bemused chuckle fell from my lips. "Are you hostile because I find a man so great? Like I said; you read his books and you'll understand." I remembered that I had left the book on a table in the kitchen. Standing up, I went and fetched it. "Take it." The blue cover rested under his nose. "You know you want to. I know that it's horribly tempting for you to see me with another man in my arms."

I didn't mean any of that in regards to Thomas _or_ Edward. I meant it as a joke, but I realized the foolishness of it when it was too late.

Holmes stood up swifter than a spooked horse, snatched the book and headed towards the stairs. Flabbergasted, I stood with my arm still extended. Was he really that upset so rapidly? "Don't pride yourself too much, Miss Adkins," He began, as though he were reading my thoughts. "Don't applaud yourself in thinking that you upset me because I was jealous. That is not the case." He stopped midway on the staircase, tapping the cover with his index finger. "It's just that… I myself find Professor James Moriarty _horribly_ tempting."

~.~.~.~.~

As I was dressing myself the next morning, a small collection of books seemed to catch my eye. One in particular called towards me. Quietly and timidly, I scooped it up into my pale hands. "The Holy Bible," I read aloud. It sounded foreign on my tongue. My voice was slow and careful, like I was talking about something precious and unworldly.

I couldn't even recall the last time I had gone to church. It deeply upset my parents that I found no interest in attending, but when you study science and engineering, thoughts of God seemed a bit… well, dull. It's not to say that I don't believe in him. I do find the stories keenly interesting. But, sitting on a wooden pew for hours on end was frankly uncomfortable. Singing songs that sounded awful without harmonies… Well, it could get to one's head and eat at it.

At least… my head.

I did feel bad about it sometimes, and if I passed a church while going to meet Watson, I figured a drop in wouldn't kill me. It would certainly make me feel better about always disobeying my mother. Besides! There were thoughts that might make me feel better if I let go during confessional.

The topic of religion was a sensitive one. I didn't like to bring it up, and I didn't like to think about it. However, if a priest was willing to listen to my sins and swear not to judge me, I didn't see the harm in momentarily claiming I was catholic.

I glanced at myself once in the mirror before heading out. My clothes were on straight and my hair was in its usual bun, so all was well by me. I made my way towards the front door, but was stopped by the alarmingly sudden shade of blue. "What's this?" I said, peeling Moriarty's book away from my face. Holmes smirked from the other side. "Why are you giving it back? Surely the first chapter is not _that_ boring."

"No, the first chapter grabbed my attention immediately. That's why I've finished it, and am returning it back to its rightful owner."

I could feel my eyes bulging out of my head. And I thought _I_ was a true Moriarty fan! "You read the book in one night? Did you sleep at all?"

"As a matter of fact, I believe I haven't slept as well in months."

My mouth hung open in shock, but no reply could find its way out. I shook my head in bewilderment before brushing past him. "Well, that's all very well and good, I suppose! If you enjoyed him so thoroughly, I have more of his work upstairs in my room."

Holmes, dressed in a green striped vest and gray pants, frowned at me in disapproval. I could have frowned at his mismatching colors, but I seemed to be better at hiding my disappointment than him. "Are you planning on walking?"

I pointed to a grandfather clock in the opposite corner of Mycroft's lobby. "I'm leaving early so I have plenty of time to meet Watson. I'll meet both of you in the hotel dining room."

Holmes couldn't seem to wipe the grimace off of his face. It was like the little boy in the stairway picture all over again. "But, have you eaten breakfast here?" I shook my head. "You won't be terribly hungry, then?"

"If I do become hungry, I'll manage." Food was the last thing on my mind, but I wondered why Holmes even bothered caring.

"Very well," He said as he turned his back. "I'll go enjoy the _buttery croissant_ waiting for me at the table, hopefully accompanied with a _clothed_ host, and I will meet you in the dining room in about an hour." After flashing a dashing smile, he tipped his hat and waltzed out of the room. I rubbed my eyes to make sure his happiness was authentic. I pinched myself for a second reassurance. There was not an ounce of a dream in me. I was wide awake, and so was Sherlock Holmes.

That only meant he had discovered something new. That was the only thing that could have made him so happy. But what? What could he have discovered in a few hours of reading a book?

I shrugged it off and opened the door to a fresh spring breeze. Moriarty was the least of my concerns. I could worry about him later.

~.~.~.~.~

Sure enough, a small church presented itself to me not shortly after I entered the village. Pulling back the giant, wooden doors was a hard endeavor, but I was pleased to see that I was alone. Making my way down the aisle, my boots clicked loudly on the stone floor. Not a single candle was lit that morning and the sun struggled to shine through the stain glass windows at the end of the hall.

A small confessional booth was placed to the left of the alter. At first, I thought no one was there and I would admire the church and head out. But, eventually I noticed two shiny black shoes waiting patiently behind a curtain. Slowly, I made my way towards my side of the booth. After pulling back the curtain, I kneeled inside. "Hello?" I muttered, afraid that he really was asleep. I didn't want a startled priest to be screaming at me in an echoic church. The man, however, was not asleep and seemed eagerly interested in my presence. His eyes were aged between the criss-cross metal bars, and his thick mustache seemed as grey as the streaks in his hair.

"What have you come to say, young lady?" His Oxford accent only made him more intimidating.

"I want to confess my sins, sir."

There wasn't anything I had planned to speak about. I figured it would hit me when the time came. He urged me to continue with a wave of his hand, and before I knew it, my voice had total control of me. "You see, there's this man. And the thing is, I know that this man is good hearted and gentle… a bit off, but gentle… There is strength in him that I long for. I cannot tell if I admire him like a hero, or if I wish to be his heroine." The man was silent for a moment too long, and more words continued to flood out. "I don't think of him in sinful ways. If anything, I image us to be… married. It's a rare occasion that the idea comes to me, but when it does, it doesn't seem all that startling." The word tasted like bitter chocolate in my mouth and I instantly wanted to spit it away. "But, I don't think I want that. Well, I'm not really sure, but I know it would never happen."

"It would never happen?" He chuckled. "My girl, you seem confused about a great many things."

"Yes, I know!" My voice was distraught. "What's even worse is that a man I previously loved is back in my life. I fear he wants me to come back to him- not that I ever would- but it frightens me. Things are slipping further and further away from my grasp. That, and not to mention the murders!" The priest's head instantly snapped in my direction. His mouth hung open in disgust and disbelief. "No, wait!" I laughed, shaking my hands frantically. "I didn't kill anyone!" I _really _hoped we were alone in the church now. "I couldn't even hurt a fly! It's my line of business."

"Should we speaking of more important matters than your… feelings, Miss?"

I shook my head and crossed myself quickly. "Forgive me," I mumbled. "The killings are not worth speaking about and I did not mean to mention them. You see…" How was I going to explain myself? "My boss is with the Scotland Yard."

Instantly the priest sat up in his wooden seat. "Scotland Yard?" His voice rose with an unforeseen anger. My whole body leaned back in surprise. "What kind of line of profession is that? Those men think they know the ins and out of society, but they know nothing but textbooks and professors' drabbling! What fools they are!"

I was dazed and knew not what to say. It was a reaction I expected from Holmes; not a priest. My mouth gaped for a few moments before I swallowed my fear completely. "You're right," I replied. "It is a line of profession certainly not worth speaking of. Perhaps we should forget I ever mentioned it?"

The priest seemed a bit embarrassed. After coughing into his fist, he seemed to lean back with more satiety. "Absolutely true. Tell me more of this boss of yours."

My head turned to get a better look at the priest. Normally, they let me speak as it came, but this one seemed a bit more forward. "He's a fine gentleman," I sighed, glancing at the man's thick mustache. "A bit older, but wise and different."

"Different?"

How much nosier was this man going to get? Maybe he was looking out for me, but I didn't even know where to start describing Holmes's character. "You know, he…" My mind tried to grasp words that seemed non-offensive, but it was harder than I thought. "He's intellectual."

"And this makes him different from other men?"

I jutted out my lip in aggravation. Confessional was harder than I remembered. No wonder I didn't like going when I was younger. "Well, yes. He's intellectual on an incredibly high basis, and the things he does for fun is a bit startling."

The priest gave a low "mhm", as though he were calculating my words. His eyes glanced over towards me for a brief second before redirecting themselves towards his closed door. "I think you must learn how to describe this man first before you promise your heart to him."

"You do?" My entire body tensed. "How did you know my boss was the same man I was speaking about earlier?"

That put the man at a standstill. His face twisted with uncertainty, as though I had discovered a secret. He turned his face away so I could only see a quarter of it. "What a foolish notion. It was obvious from the way you spoke about him that it was the same man that held your heart. You are a very silly girl, and if you want things in life, you must not be afraid to take them. That is your problem." This was the most straightforward man I had ever known, and I respected him all the more for it. "One our father, 10 Hail Mary's." And with that, he crossed himself and slammed the metal window shut.

~.~.~.~.~

Watson couldn't help but laugh when I told him I went to confessional. "You don't exactly seem like the kind of person to sin, Renadale."

"Well, I'm not. I was hoping for some good advice, which I did receive. Now that I look back on it, I feel like it only made my head feel worse."

Holmes grunted as he brought his tea cup closer to his lips. "Sometimes I fear confessionals are nothing more than a way for priests to rumor." Watson and I smiled. He had a valid point. "Then again, I can't say these thoughts aloud for fear of being heard by one of them."

"What's wrong with that?" I teased. "Shouldn't they know their own wrongs?"

Holmes couldn't help but smile in return. "Perhaps, but by hearing my own gossip about themselves, they'll throw me along with them." His brows rose. "And the problem is; I would rightfully deserve it."

"You have plenty of other reasons to go to confessional besides disliking priests," Watson smirked. "Let's not get started on that, shall we?" Holmes merely smiled and pulled out one of my Moriarty books from pocket. We were taking a luncheon break before we got started, and clearly Holmes was more interested in reading than conversation. "Is that a Moriarty book?" Watson laughed, but only in surprise. "Might I ask why you're reading it?"

"Have you read them, John?" Holmes asked without looking up from the pages. "They're surprisingly detailed and accurate about a great many things. Though, I do find it hard to believe that James Moriarty can keep up on all of this gardening, writing and teaching…"

"Well, he is a genius," I replied. "He ought to be able to keep his act together."

Watson scratched his head with clear bewilderment. "He's certainly making his way up in London. A great many deal admire him." His eyes scanned Sherlock's face, looking for some kind of mockery in it. Nothing was there but pure admiration for the book in front of him. "Which is why it confuses me that you find him so astounding…"

"Are you telling me that I don't agree with the general public?" Holmes asked, flipping a page dramatically. "That is a rather harsh assumption."

Waston's brows knitted together as he firmly set down his tea. "No it's not! What are you talking about? You hate all of the standards of society. You even tell me so on a regular basis." Watson's eyes narrowed warningly. "You seem different this morning."

He did seem a bit off. I had never heard him express so much adoration for a man besides himself, and I didn't think I ever would. I wasn't complaining, because I myself loved Professor Moriarty, but Sherlock Holmes didn't exactly seem like he would be one of his greatest fans. "Watson, if I am changed, Mary is a cow."

Watson nearly spat up his drink. "Are you suggesting that I called my wife a cow?"

"Fiancée," Holmes corrected with a wag of his finger. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"She will be my wife soon enough," Watson growled. I, however, was back in my familiar zone. My two closest friends were arguing my ears off. That was the life I knew, and it was a splendid one. "I'm tired of you always acting like it's never going to happen. After all, you offered to plan my stag party… which you better not forget about!"

Sherlock broke his eyes away from the print for a measly second. They looked at Watson, who stared at his beadily. I saw bitterness in both of their stares, but it soon dissipated with the appearance of a waitress. "Excuse me," she said politely. "Miss Adkins has a visitor."

"Brilliant." I hadn't meant to say it aloud, but there it was. Clearly, we all knew who it would be, and clearly, none were too pleased about it.

None of us expected him to walk in wearing a riding suit, either

"Thomas." I announced, raising my brows at his appearance. He held a top hat in his hands and his dark blue suit looked simply… well, dazzling. I found myself rising from my seat. He looked so elegant; I thought he was a prince of some sort. His classy outfit was completely British, and he hardly seemed like a rogue American at all.

He seemed perfectly different from what I remembered.

Why was everyone so changed all of a sudden?

Watson and Holmes both eyed me curiously as I rose. "I wasn't expecting you."

"No, I suppose you weren't." He was out of breath, and it was clear that he had rushed to get here. "Renada-… Miss Adkins." He corrected himself without ever taking his eyes off me. "I was wondering if you would like to accompany me on a ride."

My hands gripped the edge of the table until I thought my nails were making dents. "I'm afraid I'm not dressed for such an occasion, and I fear we would not fit comfortably on the same horse." My cheeks were growing as pink as the roses on the breakfast table.

"No, I thought you might say that," he smiled. "I had one of my friends bring his horse for you." He paused after hearing his words aloud. "That is, if you wished to ride."

"Of course she does," Holmes answered for me. His eyes were fixated on his fork, which he kept hitting against the table. "You two can talk further about symbols and mixed emotions." His eyes glanced towards me and it only took me a second to notice the emotion in them.

The stare. The hardness of his chocolate eyes. His naked upper lip. His judging tone.

"You!" I gasped, pointing a rude finger directly in his face. The two other men seemed startled, but Holmes made no reaction. "You were the one in the confessional, weren't you? You were that priest making me confess my sins!"

"Oh my," Thomas smiled. "This is getting terribly interesting."

Holmes stood up from the chair and tossed his napkin across his plate. He stared down at his empty tableware and let out a sigh. "It seems I've suddenly lost my appetite and my violin is calling to me." He nodded politely towards Thomas and Watson, made no gesture towards me, and walked out the door with arrogance unheard of.

"How dare he!" I felt completely exposed, as though Holmes had gone a bit too far to tamper with my affections. Did he hold no respect? Was there no care or concern in his heart? Or rather, had he done all of that because he _did _care? "It doesn't matter. Thomas, come on. We're leaving." I quickly snatched his wrist and began pulling him towards the front door. He made no complaints.

~.~.~.~.~

"I'm leaving for London tomorrow," Thomas said. As much as I didn't want to, I couldn't stop thinking about Holmes. Every time the confessional incident came into my mind, I felt angry with him, but more so with myself. Why was it so hard for me to speak the truth that was in my heart?

"Oh, you are?" I tried to focus on the conversation, but it was very difficult. "I suspect we shall be leaving for London soon as well."

"Do you like all of this?"

"All of what?"

The horse hooves clicked against the graveled path leading out of town. Thomas's eyes were burning a hole into my face, but I didn't have the stomach to meet them. "This… running around, chasing murderers, seeing dead bodies…thing."

"You mean being a detective?"

A dark chuckle fell from his lips. "If that's what you want to call it, sure."

My fingers stroked through the horse's mane, though I knew he couldn't feel it. It was more of a comfort for me than him. "Yes, I enjoy it. I feel like I'm helping people. It's sort of thrilling."

"That's what worries me," Thomas sighed. "It's not you. You were never the kind of woman to seek something that made your heart pound. You never acted like you wanted something to chase after. You're different Renadale, and I feel like I don't know you anymore."

His words seemed to contradict themselves, but I didn't want to lash out at him again. He was trying to make conversation, and that was something that I had avoided with him for so long. I couldn't put it off anymore. "Actually, I used to love the idea of a chase," I confessed. "After all, you were the one that inspired me." We both turned to look at one another, gentle smiles on our face. The sunlight bounced off his dark curls and I could have sworn I felt my heart flutter, if only for a second. "But, I never did anything about it. That was my main issue." My voice grew softer. "Losing you made me realize that if I wanted something badly enough, I should go for it."

I wasn't ashamed of admitting the truth. What I said was honest, and that was a trait anyone should be proud of. However, I didn't seem to notice when Thomas had fallen behind because he pulled his horse to a stop. After a second, I began to realize that I was riding alone, and I stopped to turn my horse around. Thomas was standing in the middle of the path with nothing but trees and sky surrounding him. The look in his eyes was piercing. I could actually read him. Unlike Holmes, I could see the hurt in his eyes.

"Why, then? Why didn't you muster up the courage to leave with me?"

My voice got caught in my throat, and I thought I'd never be able to get it out. I could feel the open breeze whisking at my hair, and I hoped it was covering up my fear. "Because you were so much better than me."

"Better than you?" He scoffed aloud. "What on Earth made you think that? How could that be a factor in wanting me?" Thomas was a man of such culture, humor, charm, and intelligence. I didn't possess any of those things when I fell for him, and now that I had a few, I knew that my chance was dissolved. "Renadale, can't you see that I never forgot you? Do you see a ring on my finger? Do you see a locket on my neck?" He was too far away for me to see tears, but his eyes were certainly glossy. "Renadale, I can't get you out of my mind and I need for you to help me. I've been this way for years, and the day I got your letter, I thought I had died. I thought I was in heaven or dreaming because it seemed too good to be true."

I was afraid to answer, and I was trying to convince myself that everything really _was_ a dream. Nothing was working, and I knew that it was time for me to grow up. Thomas and I could never be together. What we had was special, but it didn't last then, and it wouldn't happen again. "Thomas…"

"Don't say what I know you're going to," he spat out lowly. "You're going to tell me that what we had was a gift, but now it's over. It doesn't have to be gone, Renadale. I wrote to you after I left. I wrote to you after you'd given up on me. You never responded, but I'm going to give you a second chance." _Why did this have to happen to me? Why now, of all times? _"Renadale, my heart has always been yours."

I could feel the tears swelling in my eyes. I didn't want to hurt him again. I did love him once, and I knew that if I tried, I could love him again. That was the hard part; knowing that I could love him once more. I was different; he said so himself. But, the things in my life were different too, and they didn't sway my heart any closer towards his. "Thomas, you had my love once. I tried to get you to be proud of me, but you just wouldn't. You wouldn't marry me, Thomas-"

"Renadale!" He practically shouted. "You can't keep acting like my teenage self was sensible! He wasn't! I know that I was a fool, and I admit my wrongs!" He wasn't trying to hide his torment anymore. Things were getting heated, and I found myself wanting to run off on my horse; run away to my thoughts and daydreams like I always did. Thomas instantly jumped off his horse and made his way towards me. He grabbed my horse by the saddle and stared up at me with fragile eyes. "Come down here," he mumbled, extending his hand. "I want to look at you."

Pathetically, I slid from the horse. He helped me down, grabbing my waist as I jumped off. He didn't let go after my feet touched the ground. "Thomas, don't do this to yourself," I choked. "Don't make things harder when they don't need to be. You can do better than me."

"If I could have done better, I would have done it a long time ago. It took me too long to realize that you were what I needed, and now I know there's nothing better than you."

"Don't kid yourself, Thomas."

"I haven't and I won't."

We were standing by the unreigned horses, but they didn't seem interested in anything but the plentiful grass surrounding us. Thomas's eyes seemed more tired than they used to be. He was still handsome, but being so close to him made me notice how much he had aged. It had been about six years, and the bags beneath his eyes had grown darker. I could see streaks of grey just above his ears, but not nearly as visible as Sherlock's. His lips were less pink, and his forehead was wrinkled from stress. I let out a long and heavy sigh as I stared at him. He was Thomas Smith, but he was different too.

"Do you remember the time when you snuck from your tent to meet me on top of the hill?" His voice was so soft that it nearly got swept up with the wind.

"You were sitting on top for an hour. I wanted to come earlier, but my father kept getting out from bed." The memory was a sweet one. My heart warmed as we discussed it. "You were reading a book about… oh…"

"The Mayans," he answered with a smirk. "I had a fascination for dead things. Call it sick, but I couldn't even part with it when I knew a beautiful girl was coming to meet me."

"No, no," I laughed. "It was interesting. You taught me a lot."

"Is that right?"

Thinking back to all of the things he taught me, he seemed more like a teacher than a lover. "You were a brilliant man, Thomas," I complimented. I could feel his fingers tightening on my back. Somehow they made me feel more calm than anxious. "You still are, if I'm not mistaken."

His eyes looked over my face. I knew he was analyzing me the way I had him, and I was curious as to what he thought. My skin had only gotten paler and my expression more dreary, but I didn't think I had changed dramatically. My hair was longer and my figure smaller. Perhaps I wasn't as attractive as I had been, but I felt more pleased with myself. I felt more beautiful than I ever had.

Thomas shook his head. "What good is a brilliant man without a brilliant woman by his side?"

His question made me want to laugh, because I instantly thought of Holmes. He could do anything without a woman by his side and was pleased to say so. I didn't have time to get my thoughts out, however, when I felt my body being pulled forward against my will.

"Oh!" I squeaked in surprise. My body hit Thomas's velvety chest with shock. My hands reached for his arms to steady myself, but it wasn't seconds later until I was shocked again. His lips hit mine with a startlingly soft touch. My eyes were wide open, and I stared at his kissing lips with confusion and incoherence.

_Why wasn't I pushing him away?_

My eyelids began to flicker until they finally shut. Thomas's lips were smoother than I had ever imagined, and I found myself hopelessly falling for them. How many times had I imagined this moment? How many hours did I waste thinking of how he might hold me? Too tight? Not too tight? Would he dip me down and kiss me like a princess? I had spent too many hours day dreaming, and they were all so long ago, it wasn't even worth remembering.

"Thomas," I finally broke free, shoving him away with gentle hands. "We can't."

His chest was heaving. He clearly had dreamt about that for a long while too, but it wasn't the romantic moment that we had both spent our thoughts on. It was a desperate one. It was spur of the moment. Thomas and I had just thrown ourselves on the brink of old love, and neither of us seemed too fond of it.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, rushing towards my horse. "I have to go. You've been helpful with the case and if you have any final words, please send a letter to My-"

"Renadale!" Thomas shouted, shutting me up. I stared down at him with my lips pressed together. I could still feel him on me. "Stop talking. I'm not leaving you like this."

"A-alright," I stuttered. "Then, I'm afraid you leave me no choice but to exit without a proper goodbye."

I flung my arms up as the reigns hit the horse's neck with a firm thud. In seconds, I was off at high speed, heading back towards the town. I prayed he wouldn't chase after me, and I knew he wouldn't. I was pleased that was the case.

Somewhere inside of me though, I was crying.

~.~.~.~.~

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

"Renadale?" Watson said as he flung open the door. "What are you so desperate about? Come inside, you look awful."

I loved John Watson. He wasn't afraid of telling me the truth.

As I made my way inside his hotel room, I couldn't help but noticed a sour looking Holmes sitting in front of an ashy fireplace. "Get out," I shouted, pointing towards the door. His eyes grew wide in shock, but I wasn't messing around. "I mean it!" I screamed, still pointing. "Get out of this room!"

Watson turned his head towards Sherlock, who remained sitting with a pipe clamped firmly between his teeth. He had no intention of leaving, but he did seem a bit startled when I started marching towards him. My hands gripped tightly as his coat as I hauled him off the chair and over towards the door. "I asked you politely to leave, and you disobeyed me. Now, I'm going to have to use force." After shoving Holmes from the room, I was certain to lock the door with precision. "Watson," I breathed. "We need to talk. Alone."

The bewildered doctor stood with his arms folded over his chest. "When I told you that you possessed a new strength, I wasn't kidding, you know."

I flicked a rascal curl away from my eyes. "Yes," I sighed. "I know."

"You might want to figure out when you've taken it too far."

"Don't you dare judge me when I'm a heated mess."

His hands rose innocently. "Alright, I won't. Why don't you have a seat in the chair and we can talk about things?" His hands gently pushed me towards where Holmes was sitting earlier. I found the cushion to be some sort of godsend. It felt good to sit down, and I found myself relaxing much faster.

"Thank you," I mumbled, fiddling with my shaky fingers. "I'm sorry I lashed out like that, but my mind is driving me crazy and my thoughts need to be spoken to someone. The horse ride was a lot longer back than I thought, and it gave me too much time alone with my brain." Watson smiled sympathetically. "It's dangerous, you know… to be left alone with one's own thoughts."

"Renadale, did something happen on your horse ride?"

My eyes slowly lifted from their weak state so I could get a better look at my therapist. His light eyes were soft like the sky, and I found my heart opening to them. "We were fine at first. He was telling me of his travel plans." My face grew red when I thought of what came next. "But, then he started bringing up memories… Memories that I wanted to forget."

"What happened afterwards?"

"And then, he…" I instantly felt like Holmes was still waiting behind the door. I didn't want him to hear my next words, so I made sure to whisper in the quietest of voices. "He kissed me. It didn't make sense; it wasn't the right time, but it happened regardless. I shoved him away, but I'm scared that-"

"You're scared that you felt something," he answered for me. I looked at him like I was surprised by the assumption, but ultimately confessed with my eyes. Thomas was messing with my head again, and my father wasn't there for me to lean on anymore.

"I did feel something, but I don't want to." My voice shook and I tried my hardest to keep it firm. "Things are different for me now, and I don't think I want him in my life anymore. I thought we could be friends, or keep in touch, but I'm afraid that our hearts will always be drawn to one another in some way. And, it bothers me because…" _Because of Sherlock. Because I want my heart to be totally and utterly his. I want him beside me and I want him drawn to me like an adamant._ "It bothers me because I feel like my heart is lost to another."

Watson knew who I was speaking of. His fingers drummed against the side of the patterned chair he was contemplating in. "It's funny because right before you kicked him out, Sherlock was in here speaking about you."

"He was?" My body lifted a bit from the seat. "What did he say?"

"Nothing," Watson smiled. "This is exactly how I know that he was thinking about you."

"He didn't say anything at all?"

"Nothing," Watson chuckled. He really understood his friend a lot better than I did. "He walked in here a bit after you left, sat down in that chair, and didn't say a word until you threw him out."

My legs pulled me up and I found my gaze fixed on the door. "I should probably go talk to him, shouldn't I?"

Watson shrugged. "I feel like you two do that a lot but never get anywhere."

"Thank you Watson," I said as I patted him on the back. "You know, sometimes you say so little, but you end up saying everything so perfectly." I headed towards the door with my head held high, but I heard Watson mumble something before I left.

"Glad I could be of service."

~.~.~.~.~

The man's small fingers picked up the inkwell with ease. He stared into the blackness of it, looking at his reflection in the glass. His soul was reflected in the thick, dark liquid. He smiled, but it was a forced smile, and he still felt sick in the gut of his stomach. "What a stupid boy," he mumbled to himself.

It was late and he was alone in his office. Well, not entirely. Across the room, a body sat in a chair, slumped and mute. He glanced at it occasionally, but kept forgetting about it. He knew that was a bad idea, in case anyone came into work before him. With a heavy sigh, he pushed back his wooden chair with a squeak.

"You know, you didn't have to do this to yourself." The man muttered as he slowly walked towards the sleeping body. "You didn't have to do things your way, when I specifically told you not to." If anyone were to have been watching the man, they could have said there was madness in his eyes. He was good at hiding it, but not tonight. Tonight he was mad, but at least his job was done. "If only you would have listened to me…"

His fingers slipped under the boy's chin. He remembered how strong and proud the child had lifted it when he had mocked him in the room a week ago. The older man knew that the young boy would disregard his wishes, so he had planned for his demise in advance.

He now sat, lifeless, in a sitting room chair that had once belonged to the older man's grandmother. He smiled as he stared down at his dead body. There wasn't a more perfect place for him to have ended his life.

"I warned you," the man hissed as he stared into the boy's cold eyes. "But you got in my way. And, funny thing is… I don't like people who _get in my way._"

The boy was obviously not responding. The man was going to take care of the body in a minute, but before he did, he stared into the marks carved on the back of his hand.

There was a perfect square, followed by a short line, then an eight pointed star, and finally a circle with a line in the middle.

"Silly, really," the man said, letting go of the frigid fingers. "You should have known that a group like the Illuminati was of little use to the world." The man smiled. "If you want a war, you need money. You need power. You need the government's help and the people's hate for one another." The boy remained silent. "You know, I like you better like this. You're much more agreeable."

And with that, the man had said all that he needed to say.


	9. The Great Puzzle

**Hello again everyone! Thank you all for the lovely reviews. They really do mean so much to me, and I love to hear your opinions and thoughts, even if it's just a line long!**

**Hufflepuff: Well, I'm certainly glad that you're back! I think you'll find I frequently update now, and I hope you continue to enjoy the stories and review. (: **

**LuckyandStars: Haha! I'm glad I confused you. I thought many of you would understand it was him straight away by his distaste for the Scotland Yard, but I'm glad I was tricky. (:**

**Teo4ever: I guess she threw him out of the room partially out of frustration, partially out of wanting to talk about her feelings with Watson. Oh, Waston. He's practically Rena's confessional. –heart-**

**Fansofsmallville: The second "A Game of Shadows" is released, I am going to add her into the movie! This story will be short, because this story will connect to the movie!**

**THANKS AGAIN AND PLEASE REVIEW (: **

**~Mistro**

~.~.~.~.~

The second I shut the door behind me, Holmes made himself known. He was sitting on the top stair; seemingly deep in thought. Even after sitting down beside him, his eyes remained shut. His breathing was calm and I felt myself relax just watching him. "Are you allowing me inside or have we both been pushed from the room?" He asked.

I laughed at my previous actions. "You know, I wasn't pushing you away because I was upset with you. I just needed to talk to John alone." Sherlock stared into the white wall ahead of us. His vest was popped open, and despite the gloomy look on his face, he seemed at ease. "We've both missed him, haven't we?"

"Missed John Watson…" He pondered over the idea. "That's a remarkable thing to say."

Sherlock Holmes wouldn't admit it, but he was thrilled to see his friend back. Things were confusing and the two men were obviously under pressure. Sherlock struggled with the case, and Watson with the wedding. I couldn't even imagine how many times he had telegraphed Mary since he'd gotten to Chichester, but what could he say? We hadn't gotten anywhere. Things weren't changing and the case was harder to track.

"What happened to your system?" I mumbled, trying to get him to look at me. "You know; the one you used in Paris? With the string and newspapers?" Sherlock's head slowly turned towards me. I noticed a small scar just above his right eyebrow. Self consciously, I felt myself reaching towards it, but I was able to pull my hand back. Embarrassed, I mocked his position and faced the wall ahead of us. "This all seems so hard and yet it seems like nothing's happening."

"Everything's happening," he sighed. "The world is spinning and people are living and dying while we wait mindlessly behind the curtain. Everything is falling around our ears and we are sitting on top of a hotel staircase doing absolutely nothing about it."

Even though his speech took a dark turn, the fact that we were both moody and whiney did seem a bit humorous. I started laughing against my will. Sherlock peered at me with judgment in his eyes. "I'm sorry," I said as I bit my lip. "It's just that… both of us are horribly pathetic, aren't we?"

He smiled and I saw the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes appear. His lips curved into a grin and we both let out a few loose laughs. "Pathetic… Oh, I think I can afford to call myself that once a year."

We were both as pathetic as they came. Sherlock Holmes may have been born a genius, but I didn't think anyone should be jealous of his mind. He was trapped inside himself and I feared would never come out. He seemed tired, and I could tell by the dark stubble on his chin and upper lip that he hadn't been focused in a few days.

"Perhaps we should go back to your brother's house and do some research on the Illuminati," I suggested, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock reached up and touched my fingers. My stomach began to flutter, and I was instantly reminded of my feelings during Thomas's kiss. Somehow, even though he was just holding my hand, it felt so much more romantic.

But, he wasn't holding my hand. He was removing it. "Get Watson," he said as he rose. "Tell him to follow my coach, and to bring his belongings with him."

"Why?"

"Because…" He stopped in the middle of the staircase to face me. "We're leaving for London tomorrow."

~.~.~.~.~

Mycroft had fashioned a stunning library onto his country home, and that was where the three of us had decided to work for the evening. Holmes had gathered papers together on a large, wooden table that informed us about secret societies. His elder brother did not have a scarcity of any genre lying around. After all, Mycroft knew all there was to know about England and its citizens. Secret societies were common to his knowledge, and I wished he had been home enough to discuss them with us.

"The Illuminati seem to be regular in London," Watson mumbled as he scratched his smooth chin. "They're targeting government officials, and the bombs were clearly used with war power materials." He sighed as he closed yet another book. "There's no argument. We simply must return to London." Even though he started with a sigh, he was trying not to smile by the end of his sentence. He would get to see Mary and that meant the world to him.

"I was just thinking about Mycroft," I said as I scanned the enormous book shelves. "Where has he been these past few days? I can only imagine that he would have been an enormous help to us."

"He left for London." Holmes was too engrossed in reading to look up. "He left while you were out with Mister Smith. He told me to tell you that he sends his farewells." I rolled my eyes. Sherlock never would have told me if I hadn't asked.

"Is he doing something for that club again?" Watson questioned as he rummaged through papers.

"Club?" I perked up. "What sort of club?"

"Diogenes," Sherlock answered. His fingers turned down the corner of a recent newspaper. Obviously he had found something important, but of course did not want to share. "It's a group he co-created for unsocial men to sit around and read."

Diogenes Club. The idea was a spectacular one, especially if men had nagging wives and loud children constantly running around their home. "I'm assuming you attend." I reached up for a book. "Not because you don't have a solitude place to read, but because you enjoy the company of quiet, unclubbable men?" Watson grinned from ear to ear, but Holmes's expression was less than satisfied.

"When we go back to London, perhaps you should disguise yourself and see what it's like. I have a feeling that you would be fond of it just as much as I am. There's a certain aura about the place…" His eyes locked with mine. "It's nice to be surrounded by intellectual people every once and a while. It rebuilds my faith for humanity."

"Is that your way of asking Rena on a date?" Watson teased, slamming another cover shut.

Holmes's composure completely faltered. He seemed to lose concentration, and his eyes wandered helplessly all over the table. Watson and I were like bees that evening; stinging without a second thought to his feelings. "This may shock you," I interrupted. "But, Sherlock actually did take me on something of a date. We went to see the opera."

"The opera?" Watson gasped jokingly, but his curiosity was clear. "Which opera was it, might I ask?"

"Don Giovanni," he answered before I could make him seem more like a fool. "You know that it is my favorite piece. With or without Miss Adkins, I would have gone. I did not ask her to accompany me. I asked her so that she could experience something in her life that she might not have been able to again." His face was red from anger, but mine was blushing from cruelty. Was he saying that I could not afford it? Did he think I didn't know that? It was Thomas all over again. "Her interest meant nothing to me; I was merely there for self fulfillment."

The book I had pulled off from the shelf stumbled from my hands. Holmes seemed to snap out of his rude persona as it hit the ground with a thud. I wanted to pick it up and act unfazed, but I couldn't. Even in front of Watson, I was humiliated. Everywhere I went I felt ridiculed. Thomas, and now Sherlock. There didn't seem to be any man in life worth loving other than my father.

"Sherlock," Watson spoke up for me. "Your words are far too bitter. I think you should apologize."

"Yes, I know." He was not slow to realize his mistake. "Miss Adkins, I'm sorry. This is all getting to be a bit-"

"I know it is. You don't have to say that you're sorry." My heart shattered and I felt like my legs would give out beneath me. It had happened before, but Holmes had always been there to catch me. I realized that I was now on my own. "Everything you said was true. I've always known you to be a shamefully honest person, and you were only proving me right." A forced smile crossed my face. "There's nothing wrong with that."

Holmes started to say something, but second guessed himself. He had a knack for doing that, but I was glad that he kept his thoughts silent. Sometimes, I wished I knew what was going on inside that big head of his, but in the end, I think it was better that I didn't. Instead, he ripped out a sheet from the paper and tucked it in his pocket. I wasn't going to ask about it. He would tell me when the time was right.

My relaxing hands reached towards the ground to pick up the book I had dropped. I blew away some dust on the cover, surprised to see the book in remarkably good shape. "So, even Mycroft reads Moriarty," I mumbled to myself. "The Dynamics of an Asteroid and Lecture Notes." My fingers turned the cover back to a random page. Everything I saw had already been read by me, and I closed the book without further interest.

"I thought most of the Illuminati were gone now," I said as I sat down next to Watson at the table.

"Oh, there are conspiracy theories everywhere. People still study them." Watson mumbled all of this with little care and continued flipping through the book, but never reading a word on the page. "I remember someone saying something about Moriarty doing a discussion on it."

"Moriarty?" I muttered, breathless. He knew about the Illuminati! What if he could help us? What if I actually got to meet him? "We should go speak to him! If he knows something, he'll be able to help us."

Sherlock laughed aloud at my idea. "You want us to go ask Professor James Moriarty for his time? The man has no time. He jumps from the academic arena, to the business and then onto government. He has no time for…" His voice began to trail off as he spoke, obviously bewildered with something he had said.

"Are you alright?" I questioned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Perfectly fine, thank you." He muttered quickly. "In fact, I'm more than fine and I think I need more red string."

"Red string?" Watson asked as Holmes went rushing out of the room.

I shrugged and began to look through a children's book. "He has this new hobby of putting papers on the wall and connecting them with strings. Apparently it makes it easier for his mind. I don't blame him," I laughed darkly. "He's got to calm his brain down somehow."

Watson smiled, but not his usual beam. I noticed his desire to express something, but it was clear there was an inner struggle. "Watson," I said. "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

"I called him over." I must have looked startled, because Watson instantly sat up to explain. "I'm speaking about your friend… the American. Well, he came by my hotel earlier and was frightfully out of his wits. He seemed rather down, and I knew there was only one person who could do him any good."

"Are you telling me that you invited him here?" I stood up and wanted to scream, but I couldn't risk Holmes hearing any of our conversation. "You invited him over _here_?"

"Yes," he sighed regrettably. "He may already be here waiting. I don't remember what time I told him." I wanted to hit him, but he buried his face sadly in his hands. It would have seemed too much like I was hitting a puppy.

"No," I sighed. "You did the right thing. Now that we're leaving for London tomorrow, I suppose I should try and clear things up." Watson glanced at me from behind his fingers, and I could see that smile creeping back onto his face. "I would offer you my thanks, but I think I am still a bit upset with you."

Watson stood up proudly. "That's perfectly understandable. I can wait for you forgiveness until tomorrow."

~.~.~.~.~

Sure enough, Thomas was waiting outside. Mycroft's home had a nice garden in the front and Thomas had found a suitable waiting spot on a large rock. His back was to me, and I don't think he noticed my appearance. "How long have you been sitting there?" I asked, standing a few feet away.

He instantly brushed any dust or dirt from his trousers and stood up to greet me. Politely, like always, he nodded his head in appreciation. "I'm afraid I left my pocket watch at home. I've lost track of the time, but I remember coming here when it was yet dark."

So, a few hours. Good. A man _should _wait for a woman that long if he deserved it.

"Watson said he invited you because you were distressed." My arms folded themselves across my chest. I felt vulnerable around him, especially since he had kissed me. "I'm curious to know if any of your emotional turmoil has to do with me."

Thomas's lips rose into a smirk as his brows scrunched in curiosity. "My, my, you certainly have become something feisty, haven't you? Your doctor friend warned me, but I really do see it." I turned my head away like a child. I didn't need to be reminded every hour of my changing nature. "It's not to say that I don't like it," he teased. "In fact, it only makes you more exciting."

My head snapped in his direction with a warning look in my gaze. "What do you want to tell me, Mister Smith?"

"I came to warn you." These were words I was not expecting to hear. "There's something about the Illuminati that I didn't tell you. I was worried and nervous when we were discussing things earlier. I didn't know if I should mention it, but it's been eating at me and I feel a need to tell you."

As if being with Thomas in the dark wasn't scary enough, I was really beginning to feel spiders crawling down my back. "Just tell me," I whispered. "If it's important, I need to know."

"The Illuminati are a secretive group." I could hear the anxiety in his voice. "They are not people who hold power. I heard you say that the bombing and killings were connected. But, if that's true, then how could such a small group get a hold of those kinds of bombs? How could they get those weapons?"

My face twisted in uncertainty. I didn't want to seem stupid, but I couldn't place my finger on where he was going with this. "Thomas, just get to the point. What are you trying to tell me?"

"These men are not alone. They have to be connected with someone who is able to access military equipment. I know this to be true, because it has happened before. There are men in government who support their work, or at least are unafraid to use them to do their dirty business." His eyes were glossy as candlelight from the inside shimmered upon him. Though his face was bright, his fear was evident. "Renadale, I'm worried that you are getting into a case too big for you to handle. Whoever destroyed that building is obviously of a higher power. People will frown upon you if you accuse someone in the government."

"I can't give up," I muttered. "You can't tell us to just quit. Things are too random to not be connected. I know it seems ironic, but it's true. I think we're onto something."

Thomas nodded impatiently. "You _are_ onto something. That's what I'm worried about. I'm afraid you'll discover something and not like what you'll find." I realized then that Thomas was only looking out for me. He was afraid for my safety and merely wanted to help me.

"I'll be fine," I smiled. "I've got two strong men to protect me."

"Renadale…"

"Thomas," I sighed. "I know this isn't the lifestyle you expected from me. You were always playing bridge and riding horses, and thought that was the way I should be."

Thomas playfully winked. "You still could, you know." It only took one look for him to be quiet. "Alright, I apologize. Continue."

"Things have changed. I like being able to solve these cases. It doesn't just make me feel good about helping other people, but I feel like it helps me." Thomas seemed upset, but I noticed a smile appear. It was sad, but there was support in it somewhere. "Somehow, I feel complete when I'm working on a case."

He made no argument. His hands lifted in total defeat. "I promise you that I will never doubt you again. But, like it or not, you mean very much to me. Despite my arrogant ways, past reputation, and… increasingly good looks." He flashed me a playful wink. I couldn't help but swoon for a brief second. "I will always hold you in the highest place of my heart. Your safety means very much to me, and if you are ever in danger, I am a measly note away."

The sound of his words was comforting because I knew them to be true. Somewhere in my heart, I felt as though I would need him again and perhaps sooner than I thought. But, for now, all was well. As a parting gift, I went to kiss his cheek. His face turned at the last second however and our lips meet with perfect harmony. As I pulled away, I felt no anger. I supposed I owed him one more kiss for my shameful behavior around him.

"Sorry," he smiled. "But, you should have known better."

~.~.~.~.~

London: the most beautiful cesspool that ever was. The grimiest, most stunning people that ever lived. The smoky air that is as beautiful as a summer's day. That was my town, and I couldn't express my joy as the train pulled up to King's Cross Station.

"Oh, it's good to be home!" Watson shouted, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. He pulled me towards him and I matched his joy completely. Holmes continued glancing at his watch.

"We're going to be late," he muttered, handing his suitcase to Watson. "Take this back to the house. Take Rena's too." He snatched my case from me and tossed it over to Watson. John buckled under pressure and took a moment to set them both down.

"Where are Earth are you going to so quickly?" Watson grumbled as he flagged down a cab. "Am I not invited?" Sherlock only smiled. Clearly, he wasn't. His fingers laced themselves between mine, and I felt my heart twist in my chest. I was pulled away before I could say my farewells, but I wasn't sure if I could even manage to get words out.

"Is this a surprise?" I meant the question as a joke, since Sherlock was never big on giving gift-like surprises. He certainly surprised me sometimes, but he was too happy this time around.

"I suppose you could call it a surprise, but it is not just for you. It is for both of us."

Both of us? What did he mean by that?

Well, it didn't take me long to realize what he was talking about. There was a crowd of people gathering outside of one of the King's College London buildings. There were men of many ages gathered around, the youngest being in his twenties. Something big was happening, but what?

My hand instinctively reached out for Sherlock's shoulder, but I was stopped to see a pair of pants being handed to me. "What's this?" I whispered, shoving them back to him. "Why are you giving me a pair of trousers in the middle of the walkway?"

"No one is watching. They're all too mesmerized by the man they're about to go see." Sherlock once again thrust the trousers at me. "Take these to a nearby restroom and change as secretly as you can."

_You have got to be kidding me. _"Sherlock, I will not exit a woman's restroom wearing men's clothing." He then held up a trench coat for me to wear in order to hide behind. He was going to have to do a lot more than that to convince me. "You have to tell me why."

"Because," he sighed. "Professor James Moriarty is giving a special speech at King's College today and I thought it might be of interest for you to go." His eyebrows rose in anxiousness, but I could focus on nothing but the excitement in my chest.

"Give them to me!" I nearly screamed, grabbing the clothes and rushing to the nearest restroom. I didn't care how I looked when I entered a very elegant restaurant. How was I going to pull this one off? "Excuse me!" I flagged down a host. "I'm afraid I have been walking for a very long time and I am very far from my home. Might it be alright if I use one of your restrooms?"

"I'm sorry, but these restaurants are only accessible to customers with reservations." He smirked, but his skinny face didn't grow any more appealing with a smile. "I'm afraid that also involves the restroom." His face instantly lit up like he had a brilliant idea. "But, you know, there is an Irish pub just down the road that would be more than happy to take care of you."

I frowned in displeasure. I could have shouted at him, but my nerves got the better of me.

But, then I remembered.

This was Professor James Moriarty we were talking about!

"That is a shame," I sighed heavily. "I'm afraid it's really just urgent, so I might have to find somewhere behind your building." A quick smile cracked across my face as his turned to one of horror. As I began to walk away, he grabbed my shoulders and began to direct me towards the restrooms.

"Don't show your face in the dining hall!" He hissed. "You are not dressed accordingly, and I will have you removed! I mean it!"

He didn't have to say it twice. I was going to get out of there as fast as possible. I just needed to change into my clothes and I would be out of there! I recognized the familiar outfit from our Paris trip, and was somewhat pleased to be wearing my old clothes. After tossing on the coat, but keeping my hair down, I was ready to take on the world. I might have looked suspicious, but like Sherlock said… No one would be paying any attention. Moriarty was in the neighborhood.

It was like the Queen coming into the slums. It was certainly a big deal.

After sneaking out of the eatery, I was displeased to see that Sherlock had relocated. After nervously searching for a bit, I spotted him on the side of the building. As I crossed the busy street, I could see a smile forming on his face. "That outfit does seem to suit you, Miss Adkins." Though it was a joke, I could feel myself blushing. Something distracted me however and all of my attraction for him began to fade.

"Sherlock… Why is your nose so big?"

His nose had grown considerably in the passing minutes, and small, round spectacles covered his face. His hair was sticking up at an awkward angle and I noticed his front tooth was covered with black wax. "It's not my best," he laughed. "But, I'm afraid it will have to do."

"Why are you wearing a disguise? You're obviously a man."

"Aha, but I am not a college man, and to get into these lectures you must be. There is a professor at King's Cross who looks remarkably similar to this." He gestured to his appearance. "I should be able to pass for him as long as I tell them who I am."

I could have slapped him. "You're Sherlock Holmes! Just tell them who you_ really_ are, and they're sure to let you in." I remembered what he had said about Mycroft. "On that note, just tell him who your _brother _is. That is guaranteed to get you entrance."

"And waste a perfectly good disguise? Heavens no, Renadale. That will not pass."

He was making me smile more that day than he had in a long time. Our bickerment in Mycroft's library melted as the snow. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing. "I still look like a girl, though. They'll know that I'm not one of them."

"Luckily for me, you don't wear makeup often. Today was a wise decision not to." I knew my lack of effort to look good every day would be useful at some point. "I have this as well." He pulled the same newsboy cap from his pocket. "Tuck your hair inside."

His hands quickly grabbed my long curls and began to twist them up on the top of my head. I winced as he pulled without a care, and eventually swatted at his hand. "Be gentle. I know you're not used to it, but long hair does hurt when it's pulled."

"My apologies," he mumbled as he placed the cap firmly on. "I didn't realize you had sensitive… hair."

My sensitive hair was the least of my worries. "I've already forgotten about it. Time to go!"

~.~.~.~.~

Perhaps this shouldn't have been my first reaction, but as Professor James Moriarty entering the room, I noticed one thing above all others. What caught my eye? It was the shining red hair that was not only receding from the top of his head, but also traveling around his face. My eyes must have shot out from my head when I noticed.

"Is something the matter?" Holmes whispered behind his black tooth.

I shook my head. "It's just… his hair. I didn't expect it to be orange." Sherlock smiled like I was an amusing little child. I thought he might even reach out and pat me on the head. "It's not a bad thing," I smiled as I stared down at the Professor. "He looks as perfect as he does in the photographs."

I was surprised by the sound of my own voice. I was positively giddy over this man. He wasn't a dashing youth by any means, but he had an air about him that made me feel lightheaded. He was brilliant. He was my personal hero and he was standing right in front of me!

After the applause for his entrance was dying down, it was time for him to speak. My body leaned forward in my chair so much, I think it was about to tip over. The moment was really happening. I was actually watching James Moriarty give a speech. The voice in my head that appeared when I read his books would soon be faded. I could hear the speech behind the lips of the author. It was the most exciting day of my twenty-five years.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Professor James Moriarty. If you know me… welcome! You are in the right place. If you do not know me, then I might ask why you are here, but instead I shall recommend that you stay."

A low hum of chuckles erupted from the large audience. I wanted to laugh, but was afraid my high voice would blow my cover. Instead, I tucked my fists beneath my chin and watched with all the precision I could muster up. I didn't want to forget a single word he uttered.

"Many of you have probably read my books, and perhaps a few have been to one of these lectures before." He was so easy going! Just watching him talk to us made it seem like we were his friends. He was a fantastic public speaker, but that was expected. He was fantastic at everything.

I felt someone slip me a handkerchief and looked over to see Sherlock smiling. "To wipe off any drool," he mocked. Playfully, I shoved him away.

"However, I'm not going to be discussing my books today. I have no interest in that." He smiled and his face displayed even more wrinkles. "I'm interested in what you would like to know about. I've given lectures on many things. Animals, plants, space… I'm sure more come to your mind."

"Is this… an open lecture?" I whispered to Holmes, surprised by Moriarty's statement. Holmes simply mocked my position and placed his fists beneath his chin. He ignored me and stared ahead at the speaker. That must have been what he was reading about in Mycroft's library. That was the newspaper headline he had ripped out before he declared that we were going to London.

"So," Moriarty said as he clasped his hands together. "What shall we discuss today, gentlemen?"

I didn't know where this was going until Sherlock's hand shot up. My stomach dropped to the floor. Of course, he could never make himself known in public areas. But, when he was disguised as someone else, he wanted all the attention. "I've heard that you had given a lecture on secret societies." His voice was an octave higher than usual, and I wondered what sort of professor the one he was intimidating was. He sounded ridiculous.

"Secret societies?" Moriarty questioned, scratching his chin. "I suppose I did do that a few times, didn't I? It's been so long," he laughed. "I really can't seem to remember what points I touched on. Perhaps a different one?" He began to point to someone else with a raised hand, but Sherlock interjected.

"Yes, but it's such a big topic right now, isn't it?" Everyone's eyes were on his and I was fearful of them noticing my rosy cheeks. "I mean, there were those bombings. People are saying that it has to do with the Illuminati." He shrugged his shoulders dramatically. "Those are just things I've heard."

A mumble began to float around the room. The men were obviously interested in the topic, but Moriarty looked less than pleased. "I'm afraid I know little about that," he smirked. If I weren't going crazy, I would have guessed that his composure was faltering. My brows scrunched together. Why was he nervous? "Perhaps there's something else we can discuss-"

"I did hear about that," a young man intercepted from the opposite side of the room. "It took the French police a while to notice it, but at the crime scenes there was a pattern of significance on the doorways. There was something about shapes, like a square, circle, triangle…" The other men muttered in agreement. Though they were discussing with one another, I was paying attention to the Professor's clenching fists.

"That is probably something to do with a secret group, no doubt," He mumbled. "Though, it most likely doesn't relate to the Illuminati."

That was a lie! He was lying, and he knew he was! Why, though? Moriarty was an expert on the Illuminati. I knew he was, and so did others. Why was he lying about it between his teeth? Why did he avoid the topic so entirely?

"Sherlock," I whispered above the rising conversations. "I don't like the way he's reacting to this. I'm not sure that you started something very good here."

We both turned to look at Moriarty who stared at us with nothing but bitterness. Something twinkled behind his eye, but I couldn't put my finger on the emotion. For a second he looked almost… wild. But, soon his composure was regained and he clapped his hands loudly for attention.

"Perhaps we should leave that to the papers and the government!" He laughed and everyone laughed with him. The second he breaks the ice, everyone forgot about what they were saying. But, not me. I was far too concerned with his reaction to care about anything else being said. "There was something interesting brought up to me this past weekend about a new kind of star…"

His voice faded in the back of my head while my own thoughts took over. "Sherlock, I don't like this." I could tell by his face that he didn't either. "I feel like he's utterly peeved with you and would have you thrown out."

"You're worried about his opinion?" He scoffed.

"Of course I am! He's Professor James Moriarty!" I winced, pushing him in anger. "I want to leave."

He looked at me with surprise. After all we'd been through to get there? Well, it was true. Something was upsetting me. I needed to get my thoughts out and sitting in that room for another hour was going to drive me mad. I think after a minute, Sherlock could read that in my face. "Alright," he sighed. "We'll leave. I don't think he'll complain about it either."

~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale, is that you?" Watson squinted his eyes as we stood outside of his doorway. We had walked all the way back to Baker street in our costumes, silent as the grave. Our tongues were lost to our thoughts.

"Yes, it's me," I pouted as I entered the empty room. Watson's things were all gone and packed up. Something else was bugging me too much for me to take notice of that. "He dressed me like this so we could go see Moriarty do a talk. But, it all went so very wrong." Tiredly, I tossed the cap from my head and opened up the balcony windows for a nice breeze.

"Did it?" Watson seemed more amused than disappointed. "That's exciting though, that you got to see him. Was he was perfect as you imagined?"

"Oh, yes!" My happiness suddenly peaked. "He was a bit shorter, and his hair was very red, but the way he spoke… It had that nasal tone to it. Not entirely bossy, but just rude enough to have you convinced with anything he says." Watson smiled by my definition, but neither of us seemed to notice Holmes growing frustrated.

"That doesn't matter!" He screamed angrily, pounding his fist on the top of the fireplace. Watson and I both turned to him with genuine surprise. It had been a while since Sherlock's had gotten aggressive. Maybe a few days? That was certainly the longest in months. "Something very odd went on in that room and I can't seem to place my finger on it."

"Maybe you should sleep," Watson advised. "I don't think you've done that for quite some time."

"Sleep?" Sherlock laughed, but his annoyance was apparent. "That is the dumbest thing you have suggested since you told me to stop experimenting on Gladstone." He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "Would you rather have me test my experiments on you?"

Watson frowned, but remained calmer than his partner. "I wish you would do them on yourself."

"They backfire too much to be used on a human."

"I know," Watson grimaced. "That's why I suggested you use yourself."

"Boys," I snapped, literally stepping between them. "Have some dignity. Things are frustrating, but we mustn't lose our heads."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately, one of us already lost his some time ago." Sherlock tensed up and went to go grab him, but I quickly shoved him away.

"Oh, cut it out!" I shouted above the noise. "You're both immature and you always have been! Just accept the fact and deal with your arguments at a better time!" Sherlock seemed to calm down a bit as he swallowed a clear liquid. "Right now, things are too confusing for pettiness to get in the way." I faced Sherlock, pointing to him with firmness. "Go and get your case. I want you to take out all of your string and paper and try and do as much research as you can." I noticed something in his hand. "Are you drinking Hartmann's Solution?"

Holmes instantly spat it out and set the vile back down on the table. "Watson, stop leaving your equipment around. You know how I can get."

That wasn't the first time Holmes had drank a medical liquid. I ignored it and then turned to Watson. "You need to go downstairs where it is quiet, bring an inkwell and some parchment, and write Mary a letter saying that you will arrange a lunch for the two of us tomorrow at noon." The boys looked at me with dullness in their eyes, as if everything I said went right over their heads. "You might think I'm joking, but I am not messing with you!"

The boys instantly ran off in different directions, trying to gather the gist of what I ordered them to do. Obviously, women did have some power. It felt nice to order them around. I rubbed my hands together with a smile.

The smile didn't last long, however. I had some deep thinking to do myself.

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Please review! And just a note… Hartmann's solution is a saline solution invented in the early 1880s by Sydney Ringer. **

**Yup. I do my research.**


	10. Warnings

**So the first Sherlock movie in on TV right now, and after just watching the second, I just noticed that Sherlock gets left alone when he goes out to eat a lot. **

**Poor lad.**

**Teacupful: I can't wait to read it! (; Also, don't you worry about Thomas. I'm not finished with him yet.**

**DorianGray: You're no numpty. I'm very glad you like Renadale, and sorry for any errors. I also love your username and avatar. Hope to keep seeing you around the review section! :D**

**DarkAvenger: I wish she was in the movies too! D:**

**Mrs. Malfoy: I would love to read your stories if you want to send me a link! If not, I wish you the best of luck. I'm sure they're fantastic. Keep writing! **

**SherlyGirl: I love you. I actually felt teary-eyed reading your review. So, basically, I love you. XD I hope you stay with the stories! In fact, I dedicate this chapter to you because of your tremendous paragraph. **

**OKAY, THERE'S ONLY GOING TO BE ONE MORE CHAPTER AFTER THIS, SO REVIEW PLEASE! AND KEEP YOUR EYES POSTED FOR THE 4****TH INSTALLMENT.**

**-Mistro-**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

Things were worse than they seemed. The past few weeks were easily nominated as some of the most confusing of my life. Now that Thomas and Moriarty had flung themselves into the picture, things were morphing into a blur. My mind was warped; I didn't know where to start and end my thoughts.

As I walked home, one face stuck out in my mind more than all the rest. Professor James Moriarty. I just couldn't put my finger on his reactions. He had been so defensive! Why? Did he know secrets about the case? After all, he _was_ in the government. He could have known much more than us and was worried he would frighten people.

Yet, that was the point. That was why we wanted to talk to him! We wanted answers!

Letting out an audible groan, I buried my face into my hands. My thoughts were leading me nowhere.

Luckily the sidewalks were and I soon found myself at the threshold of my own door. The wood was duller than it had been in the past. As I stared into the frame, a shiver rolled down my spine. How long had it been since kisses were planted upon that wood? How long ago was it that I saw those marks and rushed into Sherlock's arms?

A few months? It felt like a few years.

With another sigh, I shoved open the door. My body and mind were drained. Nothing sounded more soothing than a warm bed and a cup of tea.

Unfortunately, I had to get through my mother first.

"What?" I heard her scream as she saw me appear. She instantly ripped off her trademark apron and rushed over to pull me into a hug.

"Mother," I gasped as her arms tightened themselves around me. "Why is it that you always wear your apron, but never cook anything?" I was not granted a response.

Her arms stretched out so she could have a better look at me. "You've grown, haven't you?"

"Mother, I've been gone a few weeks. I haven't grown. If anything, I'm been shrinking from stress."

She rolled her eyes and made her way back towards the kitchen. "Well, that's not my fault, is it?" Her fingers reached for a dirty rag. I watched with sadness as she obsessively scrubbed at a clean plate. "You were the one who wanted to go running around with that man."

"He's not just a man," I muttered. "He's my boss."

"Well! That makes it all better, doesn't it?" She laughed beneath her anger, and I could see that she was hurt. I had left her alone. She was trapped inside of her own feeble mind with no one to talk to. I was certain that Mrs. Brettingham, her good friend, was a changed woman since…

Edward.

"I'm sorry," I said a bit louder. "But, I have many stories to tell you. I think you'll like hearing about Paris." She stopped scrubbing, but kept her back towards me. I knew she was dying to know, but her stubbornness took over and she retreated back to cleaning. "The men were as handsome as ever, but the food was not as grand as everyone says."

"Are you lying?" She faced me with scrunched brows. "Everyone says that nothing compares to French food."

I smiled and nodded. "Everyone does say that, but I say differently. I think I'm used to my mother's cooking."

She seemed pleased with this statement, and as a reward, joined me at the table. "And what happened when you came to England? You went somewhere near Chichester?"

"Yes, and I saw Thomas."

I had said it nonchalantly on purpose. My mother's reaction was the complete opposite. "_Thomas Smith_?" Her whole body rose with bewilderment. "You saw him? Did you speak to him? Is he still thin? Oh, he was the most handsome man I've ever seen. He had that aura, didn't he?" Her words were beginning to make me sick. It was a brief reminder of my mother's hopes for me. Hopes of forgetting Sherlock and marrying Thomas. "Did he speak to you?"

"Yes," I muttered. "I think he still cares for me very much."

"Romantically?" Her fat fingers rose to her cheeks. "Renadale, this is wonderful news! He is probably still as successful as he was! And better yet, he's here now. He's not in America any longer!"

The look on my face was answer enough. There was no way Thomas and I were going to be together. In a different life, maybe. But, in this one we had tried it and it didn't turn out so well. "I'm sorry, but don't excite yourself so much. My feelings are not reciprocated."

The corner of mother's lip rose in disappointment. "If it weren't for that Sherlock Holmes character…"

"Oh, come," I smirked. "You like Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes," she admitted. "I like the man very much. However, your relationship is a bit…"

"Exciting?"

"Depressing."

I slumped further in my chair. She was right about that. "Well, it doesn't matter," I sighed. "I'm not even sure what kind of relationship it is anyway." My eyes scanned the tea tin lying on the counter. My mouth nearly watered just looking at it.

"I'll fix you some tea," my mother grumbled as she noticed my stare. "In the meantime, try and get your thoughts together. Your life is far too hectic to be healthy."

~.~.~.~.~

The next morning, my feet once again carried me to 221b Baker Street. I waited patiently outside of Sherlock's room, but no answer came after my knock. I tried again, but I received nothing. Was something wrong?

"Sherlock?" I said as I turned the doorknob. "Are you-" My words were cut short when I noticed the door beginning to easily creep open. He rarely kept his door unlocked.

Peeking my head in a bit further, I was greeted with a slap to the face. Literally. A large branch flung itself into my eyes and I quickly swatted it away in frustration. "What in God's name?" I shouted, slamming the door shut behind me.

A few plants were randomly strewn about the room. I could tell that Sherlock wasn't redecorating. There was something going on here that I didn't quite understand. At to my inconvenience, the man I needed to question was nowhere in sight. "Sherlock!" I said a bit louder.

"What? Oh. Renadale. Yes. Do come in!"

His voice came from Watson's old office, but he did not make himself appear. I was a bit worried with his condition and debated with myself for a minute as to whether I should enter. Of course I did in the end, but I instantly wished I hadn't. "What have you…" I was at a loss for words. The room was a complete disaster. Papers were splattered across the walls and red string wound it's way across the room. I nearly ran into a strand and tore the whole thing down.

"I'm sorry," Holmes instantly perked up from the balcony. "You were saying something?"

"Sherlock, what have you done?" I batted strings away from my eyes. I could barely take a step without running into another one. "Don't you think this is getting a bit out of hand?"

He rested his arms on the metal balcony ledge like nothing mattered. His shirt was lazily undone, and I could see his pale skin peeking through. Nothing about him seemed normal, and yet he was acting as if nothing had changed. "Things are indeed getting out of hand, Miss Adkins. Which is exactly why I have set up this system." He spread his hands out dramatically, gesturing to his 'masterpiece'.

I shook my head in bewilderment. "When Watson sees what you've done to his office…"

"He'll accept it," Sherlock finished for me. "After all, it is not his office anymore, is it?" A dark look crossed his face, but instantly disappeared. He quickly cracked a smile. Something about it was frightening.

My eyes scanned the room to see if I could figure out what was going on in Sherlock's head. There was a newspaper clipping of the bomb near Chichester plastered above the fireplace mantel; a red string buried deep within the center. The pin held it firmly in place and my eyes followed the scarlet rope to its next connecting point.

"Moriarty?" I mumbled, tilting my head. A photograph of my personal hero hung in the very center of the wall. Looking at it made me feel suddenly ill. "Why do you have him in the center?"

"Because he somehow seems to be in the middle of everything." Sherlock's brows rose as he shoved a handful of cocoa beans into his mouth. "Juff a queer obserfation." He mumbled through his mouthful of food.

"I don't think you're right." I scrunched my brows together in disappointment. The Professor wasn't at the heart of anything but his work. He was a good and honest man, even if he acted a bit strange at the lecture. "The way he was acting in the University…"

"… Is clearly something to be concerned about," Sherlock finished for me once again. "I'm not accusing him of anything. I am simply making connections."

There was truth in his words, and proof in the ink lining the walls. Yet, there weren't enough witnesses. There was no one we could talk to about the bombings, because they were all dead. There was no one to turn to but ourselves. There were no loose ends.

"I'm going to find him." I spoke up as the idea formed in my mind.

Sherlock frowned as he licked excess cocoa powder from his lips. "Find whom?"

"Moriarty," I answered before heading towards the door.

Sherlock swiftly ducked through the red vines, avoiding every strand perfectly. As he stopped before me, his face came dangerously close. "You can't speak to Moriarty. He is most likely heading towards Cambridge. It would startle him to see a young woman such as yourself entering his office."

"I don't care," I shrugged. And honestly, I didn't. "I need to speak to him. I need to know if he knows anything about the Illuminati, and I think he'd be willing to speak with me. Besides, it hasn't been too long since we left. He may still be in London."

Sherlock's face made it evident that he didn't feel the same way. "You're only asking for trouble."

A playful smirk crossed my face. "Are you disappointed? I thought you might be proud."

Holmes made no note to disagree with my statement. What flustered him was the fact that I was not changing my mind. I made my point clear as I brushed past him and out of 221b Baker Street. If he was worried, he shouldn't have been. This was James Moriarty we were talking about, not some killer.

I would go to great lengths to protect his name.

~.~.~.~.~

The University of Cambridge had added schools for women in the past 7 years. My appearance in the area might not have been regarded as strange, despite my lack of decent clothing. To my disappointment, Cambridge was nearly fifty miles from London on the map. As I stared down at the penciled sketch across my kitchen table, I knew there was not a chance I could make it out there in time. _By the time I get there, he'll most likely be back in London for another meeting._

Feeling defeated, I folded the map up and tucked it back in its dusty drawer. The house was quiet; something I had longed for, yet today it was disturbing. The silence was stimulating me to move, and I suddenly felt the urge to get out of the house.

"I will find Professor James Moriarty," I muttered as I flung on my coat. "And I will clear his name."

After making my way out of the grimier section of London, I knew where I was headed. Trafalgar Square. If I was having any bit of luck, Moriarty would have made his way there after his lecture, and someone would have spotted him. I hoped that they might have seen which was he was headed.

London was a big city. I knew that all too well. However, when one wanted to find something, it didn't seem half as twisted as the map made it out to be. I was coming up along Trafalgar Square, avoiding eye and body contact as much as possible, when I noticed something peculiar on my right.

The National Gallery lawn was a bright green, too bright for the late winter. That wasn't what struck me as odd. What startled me was the person sitting on the lawn's bench. _It couldn't possibly be… Could it?_

"Professor?" I called out above the noise.

Surprised, the ginger head lifted itself from the birds surrounding him and locked eyes with me. "Yes?" He called out, squinting his eyes. "May I help you?"

I couldn't believe I was actually talking to him. He had no idea that he had seen me earlier. If he had, he might have shot me a glare instead of a soft smile. "I'm sorry, sir," I said sheepishly. "I'm a huge fan of yours." He seemed surprised by this statement. "I fear I may be too ignorant to read your books… but heavens!" My nerves were covered by laughter. "Perhaps that's why I read them!"

He wore a smile, but was clearly confused as to why I was asking for his time.

"I admit that I was looking for you…" His face twisted to one of concern. "Oh, not in a bad or unwelcoming way! I overheard that you were in London, and I was hoping that you would perhaps sign my book. Unfortunately for me, I had hoped to catch you in an office with an inkwell."

True enough, I did have the book in my pocket. The front page was smooth and ready to be signed.

The Professor laughed, and I couldn't help but note his face looking more like a ferret than Lestrade. However, there was a hidden charm about him. I suddenly felt at ease, especially because I knew he did not recognize me. "I was just feeding the pigeons." He gestured towards the birds gathering nearby. "It's a favorite past time of mine. Doing something good for others always makes one feel much more cleansed, wouldn't you agree?"

I would normally say yes, but in the form of humans. Not birds. However, Moriarty was a breed all his own, and I would not be the one to judge what did and did not mean something to him. "Yes," I said with a smile. "I agree whole heartedly."

"Is there something you wished to speak to me about, my dear?" The scratchiness of his voice never failed to take me by surprise.

"Actually, yes," I breathed. This was it. I had to keep my wits about me, or else he could start suspecting the truth. "I've been speaking to some men in the Scotland Yard," I lied. "They were discussing the murderers in France and the bombing in Chichester. They mentioned a sort of secret society; the Illuminati. I had read that you knew many things about such people, and was wondering if you could perhaps tell me a bit more about them."

The Professor was nothing but collected. In fact, he seemed more intrigued than upset. This was certainly a change from his heated reactions at the lecture. "I think what interests me most is to why a young lady such as yourself would be curious about these things."

"I suppose it is rather odd," I laughed nervously. "My father was a scientist, so naturally I'm interested in things most women are not. Many men frown upon this fact, but I assume you are different."

He cracked a smile and tossed a few more breadcrumbs to the birds. They all began to flutter our way. I was irrationally afraid that they were coming to attack me.

"The Illuminati are no longer present," he said as he rose from his seat. "I have done my research and their methods are far too old fashioned to be in society anymore. If there are any of them left, they are keeping themselves very hidden." Something dark flickered behind his eye. He looked me up and down and for a moment, I was scared my cover was blown. "They have been hiding themselves very well, because I have been trying to find them for many years." I audibly swallowed my nerves. "For research purposes," he grinned. "of course."

"Of course," I softly mumbled. "Well, thank you for your time, sir."

He tilted his top hat neatly on his head. I wanted to curtsey back, but my knees were locked. "On the contrary," he said before brushing past me.

I was too afraid to turn around. From a distance the conversation would have been seen as normal. We weren't friends and were very polite to one another. And yet, I feared I might have said the wrong thing. When he stared at me with those large eyes, there was a warning in them.

A warning I could not comprehend.

~.~.~.~.~

London was more of a cesspool than I remembered. I was making my way back home, but every single path I went down made me want to go towards another. First, children came tugging at my skirt, begging me for any form of money. I hated to push them away, but they didn't realize that I was as penniless as them at the moment. Another pathway held a few gypsies and circus members. This might normally interest me, but I didn't want to be pick pocketed. That wasn't a stereotype. I knew it would happen because I had fallen for the trick too many times before. My youthful soul was always entranced by fire breathers, and my pockets always paid for my mistakes.

The next alley I approached was completely empty, save for a lonely figure at the end. For a minute I hesitated, but when I noticed the wedding ring on his finger, I instantly felt relieved. Quietly, I made my way down the path with my shoes clopping on the cobblestone. "Hello," I said with a smile as I passed the man. He returned the gesture and nodded his head.

_Perhaps I am a better judge of character than I thought!_

"Excuse me, Miss."

_Perhaps I spoke too soon._

"Yes?" I said, turning. _I knew I should have just kept on the main roads and taken the longer route. _"Is there something I can do for you?"

"Oh, no," he smirked. "That's not it at all." He started coming closer and I instantly noted his blurry eye. Clearly he was blind, but I struggled to feel sympathy. He wasn't from around here. His dark skin and hair seemed out of face from the pale, rainy Londoners. "I was actually hoping to run into you."

"I'm sorry?" I scoffed, taking a step backwards. "I can say with certainty that we've never met."

His knuckles cracked as he rung his hands together. It was meant to be intimidating, and trust me, it was. "No, we've never met before. But, I'm afraid I'm going to have to dispose of you." Dispose? What was I disposable for? "If I had my way, I would never do such a thing to a pretty girl."

"And yet you are about to…?" My voice was shaky, but my feet were surprisingly firm. This was my one chance to prove myself to Sherlock. Even though he wasn't here, I was about to use the miniscule jiu-jitsu I had learned. It would most likely not be to my advantage, but I could at least say that I tried.

"What can I say?" He shrugged, still smiling. "No loose ends, I guess."

_No loose ends?_

_Isn't that what I said this morning?_

I didn't have time to think about it. My right arm instinctively rose itself as he swung his left first towards my head. It hurt to block the move, but it would have been much worse if he had actually hit my face. "How dare you!" I shrieked, raising my knee and aiming it towards his stomach. He obviously wasn't expecting me to fight back, because no move was made to block the attack. I watched as he stumbled backwards in shock. It wasn't three seconds until he was headed towards me again. "I should have seen that coming," I mumbled before I ducked from a punch.

Had he hit me? My head was beginning to throb. Things were starting to blur, but I steadied my breathing the best that I could. He wasn't going to take me. Oh, no. That would not be the case.

I just had to remember what I learned.

_While blocking face with left arm, swing right towards his left shoulder._

_Hopefully that hurt, because I think it hurt my fist more than him._

_Ignore the pain in my own hand. _

_Hit down on ears until his back is bent. _

_Use this opportunity to hit the small of his back, causing him to collapse. _

_Stand there, unsure of what move to do next._

_Run._

At least I got most of my memory working. Even a little bit turned out to be more than enough. Only one thought was racing through my mind as I sprinted towards Baker Street.

No loose ends.

How and when did I become a loose end?

In the back of my mind, I wanted to talk to Sherlock about the situation. And yet, I didn't believe him to be in his right mind. Would he actually believe me if I told him? I was largely worried about being followed. This was a rabbit chase, and I was clearly the rabbit.

Perhaps Sherlock was my main form of protection. It wouldn't be the first time I relied on his fists to save me. Then again, he had offered to be there for me. Surely, I had to tell Holmes. I had to explain the situation.

Apparently I had walked faster than I thought. It didn't take long to see the new railway construction on Baker Street. Working men in the uniform instantly caught my eye with their loud clanging, and I knew I was close by.

Sure enough, the white "Baker Street N.W." sign appeared, and I audibly gave a sigh of relief. Only a few more steps, and I would be thrust into comfort.

Or, so I thought.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I was surprised as she opened the door before I even knocked.

She shook her head and opened the door a mere crack. "You shouldn't come in," she warned. "He's not right in the head. He never is, but I fear it's much worse than before."

"Oh, you must have seen the newspaper room," I laughed. "I assure you, as silly as it is, I think it will be of some benefit to his work. Also, I'm certain that he'll pay for the holes in the wall when he moves out." I actually didn't think Sherlock would ever leave Baker Street, but I was not about to ruin Mrs. Hudson's day.

"Newspaper room?" She scoffed, scrunching her thin brows together. This seemed to take her by surprise. "I wasn't speaking of anything like that. Though, now you've got my curiosity raising…"

"Don't worry about it!" I laughed nervously. "Ignore what I just said. It's not of any importance." It was better she found out later.

After a heavy sigh, she opened the door wider. She gestured me inside, but would not let me head up the staircase. "I'm talking about all of the plants. They're growing out of control, and I swear I heard a goat up there."

"I'm sorry…" I could hear laughter slipping between my words. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was actually the delirious one. "But, did you just say… a goat?" She nodded firmly. The look in her eyes was genuine; there was no mockery behind them. "I leave for a few hours and he brings in a goat?"

"The thing is, I never saw him bring one in. I just keep hearing it!" I had seen the landlady stressed before, but it seemed like she was on the verge of just leaving. "Also, he asked to borrow my sewing kit. My sewing kit! As if he knows how to sew!"

I stretched out my hand and patted her shoulder. "I will answer these thoughts for both our sakes. I, unlike most, am not afraid of his delirious ways. Whatever is going on up there, I will certainly figure it out."

"Thank you," she breathed. "You really are a keepsake, Miss Adkins."

I thought I was already in a mess. If Holmes himself was in one, trouble would only deepen. When I said that we were both pathetic, I meant it. This was clear evidence. All of these thoughts flickered through my mind as I made my way up the creaking staircase. "Are you in there?" I whispered softly. Finally, my knuckles beat against the doorframe. No response. "Sherlock?" Still nothing.

Deciding to take a chance, I twisted the knob and gave the door a push. To my surprise, it opened completely and the same branch flicked me in the face again. "You need to trim your trees!" I called out as I closed the door behind me.

There was once again only silence. And, unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson was right. Trees lined every wall except near the windows. And, to my great surprise, in the center of the room a large-eyed goat stared back at me. "Hello," I said hesitantly. The creature's head tilted in confusion. Its square pupils watched me with curiosity. "I'm assuming we've never met. I'm Renadale."

The goat simply bahhh-ed and strutted off towards a quieter corner of the room. Clearly, I was not his type.

The entire room began to smell like cocoa and tobacco, not to mention a tropical breeze. The combination was horrid. "Sherlock!" I called out, plugging my nose. "Where are you?" My voice softened and I was afraid that I was left alone.

"Ah, Renadale," he smirked as his head appeared from behind a plant. I spun around in shock. "You look flustered."

"I'm not even going to ask you about this mess," I muttered. "I just want you to come out here and talk to me. I've had a startling day."

His brows rose. Obviously, this interested him. "Startling, you say? Yes, those sorts of days tend to be presenting themselves more and more."

Though I was fearful to admit it, my body ached to be held. I could feel my stomach wavering and my arms in need of holding. "Sherlock," I whimpered. "Can you please just come out here? I need to speak with you about something that-"

"Something about the plants?" His eyes darted around him. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson was complaining as I brought them in, but fortunately I managed to sneak the goat up without a word." As though he could hear us, the goat bahh-ed from his hidden spot.

"Sherlock!" I shouted, nearly stomping my foot. He seemed surprised by my raised voice, but remained behind the branches. "Come out here, or I won't return." Carefully, he made his way out from his hiding spot. "I met with Moriarty today." My composure was faltering as I tried my hardest to remain relaxed. "I also got threatened."

"Threatened?" Another large step was taken towards me. If he couldn't see the floods of tears forming at the bottom of my eyes, he had truly lost his mind. "Who threatened you? Where and why?"

"I don't know who and I don't know why. It was in an alley not too far from here. I managed to escape, thanks to your help."

He smiled but worry was carefully laced between his happiness. "Someone must be out of their right mind to threaten someone such as yourself." Though he often seemed to distrust women, he was a gentleman in the end. Or at least, he sincerely tried to be.

Just like the pathetic girl I am, I felt my knees collapse beneath me. My body fell forward, and luckily his chest was there to soften my fall. My arms wove their way around his muscular waist, and without his shirt fully buttoned, my cheek rested on his bare skin. "Things are changing so quickly." As I whispered, my lips just barely avoided his chest.

"Things have never been the same to begin with," he riddled. "What exactly did you speak to the Professor about?"

I shut my eyes and pressed myself a bit closer. I was thankful that he didn't push me away. His steady frame was exactly what I needed. "We discussed the Illuminati. He didn't seem to recognize me. In fact, he was normal for the most part."

"For the most part?"

Carefully, I tilted my head up to look at his face. He stared ahead at the windows, as I inspected his unshaven chin. "He did seem a bit cautious to talk to me about it. He insisted they were all gone, and that if there were any left, he would have found them."

Sherlock paused to collect his thoughts. I could see the gears working in his mind as his eyes skipped about the room. I let him think in peace, and made myself comfortable on his warm skin.

"Unless, he already found them."

My peace wavered. "What are you talking about?"

With a gentle nudge, he pulled me off from him. Just by looking at the shadowy gaze in his eyes, I instantly forgot about my confrontation. "The Professor may have already eliminated the group."

"Why would he do that?" I felt like a complete idiot. I wished Watson was at my side to feel equally as stupid.

"They knew something he didn't. They were making themselves known. " Sherlock's eyes were transfixed on the window pane. Nothing was there, but he obviously saw something I did not. "There is someone might know a thing or two about this."

"A thing or two about what?" I hoped he wasn't talking about Thomas.

"Another bomb," he shrugged. "Another death. Another mystery that I have yet to solve." My eyes narrowed. "Another mystery that _we_ have yet to solve. Somehow everything is presenting itself more clearly, and it is all thanks to you."

Getting attacked by strange men didn't exactly make me feel like a hero. "How do you know all of this so suddenly?"

"You instantly confessed to the Professor that you knew something about the Illuminati case, and then minutes later, you were threatened. Things like that don't happen for a lack of purpose." Sherlock's eyes ticked about the room like wildfire. He was so heated up, I thought he was actually going to go ablaze. "Incidentally, all of the men who were killed were in government fields that Moriarty had connections to. And, suddenly, the Illuminati carvings stopped. Bombings happened. Someone was cut off. Whoever drew those marks above the door was fired… Or rather…"

"Murdered," I answered. "He was killed because he was being too obvious."

Why hadn't I thought of such things before? It was so odd that the book methods had stopped and were suddenly replaced by bombs. And, bombs were too big of a thing for a simple murderer to be in control of. Whoever was setting them off was obviously a man of higher power. We had figured that from the start.

But, never had I connected it to James Moriarty.

"He can't be," I spat. "He's not in charge of this." I refused to believe that Professor James Moriarty was an evil man. He was smart and friendly. He fed pigeons in his free time! Is that the work of a criminal mastermind?

"Let's just assume my thesis is correct," Holmes said as he began to search for a specific string. "If so, then the next victim would be…" His fingers swiftly followed the chain across the room. I got lost trying to follow, but it was only a matter of second before Holmes tapped the top of a newspaper clipping . "Doctor Hoffmanstahl."

The name was far from familiar. "Who is that?"

"Doctor Hoffmanstahl," he rolled out in perfect German. "Origin and explanation are of little importance. All I know is that we must go as swiftly as the wind." Without explanation, Holmes began to head towards the door. The clothes I had changed out of earlier were sitting near the fireplace, and he instantly tossed them to me.

"What are these for?" I muttered, turning them over in my hands.

"Keep them," he sighed. "You'll be needing them sooner than you think."

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Ooo. One more chapter left. Which means that you should TOTALLY REVIEW. You guys are doing a nice job, and I appreciate it. I love to hear what you have to say. I also edited this late, so I hope there aren't any major spelling issues… **

**Okay, someone told me that they imagined Michael Fassbender as Thomas, and I just can't get it out of my mind. I hope it doesn't ruin it for you, but I think he's my Thomas. Even though he's british… **

**He was brilliant in Prometheus, by the way. He's brilliant in everything.**

**DID YOU BUY SHERLOCK HOLMES 2? YAY! **

**Much love-review-okay-bye-mistro**


	11. One Last Thought

**Hey guys! So, thanks a bunch for sticking with the story and for all of the wonderful reviews! For those of you who are confused, this story does lead into the second movie. And, although some parts will be following the movie, this case is left unfinished so I will be adding my own details, scenes, characters, etc. It will not follow the movie scene by scene, word by word, etc. I know how boring it can be to read stories like that. Trust me, I'm not much of a fan either.**

**So, I hope with this considered, you will stick with it. If not, well… that makes me sad, but it's your decision.**

**Renadale and Sherlock would surely miss you.**

**Your reviews last week were wonderful! I'm going to take this moment to thank you all so much and comment on every previous review (for chapter 10) and I BEG OF YOU TO REVIEW ON THE LAST CHAPTER! :D **

xKirix**: I'm super excited too! (Especially about writing the ending!)**

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Guest: **I WILL! … It will just be in a new story. :D**

Monkey**: Amen to that. They're the best, are they not? (Though Cumberbatch and Freeman are very close) I hope you're doing well and keep yourself out of the hospital! ;)**

Zaki**: ooohhh, you're quite clever. (: I guess you'll have to just read the next story and see for yourself what happens!**

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Fanofsmallville**: The Moriarty thing is a favourite of mine to write about. I'm glad you like reading it, and I hope you like this chapter with RenaxHolmes fluff!**

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Akatsuki:** I love your avatar, btw. And I hope you enjoy this chapter… if you want fluff… you got it ;)**

Teacup**: YES! I can't wait to see where your story leads! You're doing GREAT so far. You're gifted and I have faith in you!**

DarkAvenger: **That means SO much to me! Thank you so much, and I hope you continue reading.**

: **This does lead into the second story, yes! Thank you so much for reading my stories. I'm so glad to see that I have such dedicated and AWESOME fans!**

SherlyGirl: **Yes! You can have my email. However, do you have an account? I don't want to post it for all of the world to see… If I could private message you, that'd be great. (:**

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Tinkerbell: **Y'know, I ask myself the same question… Those two kids sure are crazy right? –smirk- But, I think you'll enjoy this chapter! It answers your question quite nicely! **

Xena: **Thank you, thank you!**

Nelle: **Haha, me too! I love writing her fight scenes. She's actually a bad girl, little did we all know. ;)**

Saintlike: **One more chapter… THEN ANOTHER STORY YAY!**

**And on that note, let this chapter begin. (:**

**-Mistro-**

**~.~.~.~.~**

Sherlock Holmes was not a man of sympathy. He did not like to sit around and give advice. He did not care about anyone's sad stories, heartaches, or happy news. Nothing and no one in the world could change this about him no matter how hard they tried. After months of association, I finally accepted this about Sherlock Holmes.

That was why I said I wasn't bothered when he told me whom we were going to meet. I shrugged it off and plastered a fake grin on my face. He wouldn't have understood how I felt if I had tried to explain. He would give me a logical excuse as to why we must find her… and I wasn't in the mood for logic. So, I just went along with his plan; as always.

Irene Adler was in town as well as Doctor Hoftmansthal. Clearly, this was not a coincidence. If Sherlock's string method was correct, the Doctor was one of the next victims. Sherlock and I both knew that Irene was working for someone, and this 'someone' wasn't particularily nice.

After going over papers and notes, we discovered that Irene happened to be in nearly every city where the bombs went off. Or, she had been there the day before. Once again, we did not find this to be mere coincidence.

When Irene sent Sherlock a letter in Paris, it said that she would be meeting him soon. Through rigorous snooping, we had discovered that Hoftmansthal and some other government officials would be attending an auction in two day's time.

Ergo, this was big news.

Ergo, Irene had something that Sherlock wanted.

And she knew he would want it.

What was it? That was quite obvious; a very dangerous weapon that would ruin the lives of many. The sad part was that Irene probably wasn't aware of what she was doing. She was being ordered. Someone was even more intimidating than Miss Adler.

Then again, if Irene _did _know that she was carrying a bomb, I would not be surprised. Like Sherlock Holmes, she did not come off as entirely sympathetic.

Sherlock and I had been discussing these matters as we took a carriage to the London Library. I could tell as he spoke that he was on edge. Murders were one thing, but a bomb was a different matter entirely. We knew that we were up against a bigger force. Clearly, we would be outnumbered. That didn't put a damper to our spirits, though it did seem to affect Sherlock's sanity.

As we finally pulled up to the library doors in St. James Square there wasn't time to think. Sherlock rushed from the coach and headed straight for the doors as he spoke. "Head upstairs and look for _The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde_. Do not collect a recent copy. Fetch an older one; all of the older ones you can find." I was soon left alone in the lobby of the grand library. Sherlock made his way elsewhere and I was instantly on my own mission.

"Alright," I muttered to no one. Slowly, I began towards the stairs. The entire place was as silent as the grave. There were others there, but all had their noses buried in brown and red covers. Rows and row of bookshelves surrounded us like walls on a fortress. "How difficult can this be?"

I headed straight for the fiction aisle. My fingertips brushed the hard covers of the 'S' books as I made my way further down the row. "Let's see here… Stevenson. Robert, Lewis." My eyes darted up and down. I stretched from my toes and crouched to the ground and yet there was nothing. "Nothing?" I whispered. _My eyes must be going funny. _The book was popular upon its release and I assumed there would be numerous copies.

"Any luck?" Sherlock's sudden appearance at my side was not welcomed as I jumped in surprise.

"No. In fact, there's nothing. It seems that all of the copies are checked out."

Sherlock grunted and brushed me aside. "Someone just doesn't want you to find it." After moving other books further out of the way, a small book was tucked away against the back. Sherlock's fingers instantly flipped it to the last page. He read aloud, "'I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end'."

"What?" I peered over his shoulder to get a better look. Nothing about the last line seemed intriguing to me. Then again, I wasn't Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't even _find_ the book, let alone decipher the meaning of the last sentence.

He flopped the book into my hands. "Just tuck this in your coat pocket and keep quiet." I must have looked shocked, because Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "Don't look at me like that. The last thing we should care about is stealing."

"But, that's a crime. Isn't that exactly what we fight against?"

"It's a library book that someone didn't want to be found," he shrugged. "And now they've got their wish. If you take it, they won't be able to find it."

I began to put the book inside of my jacket, but something didn't feel right. "I can't." My voice was a pathetic hum in the frozen library. "You have a jacket on too. Why don't you do it?" I gently pressed the book into his chest.

"Because people would suspect me." He nudged the book back in my direction. "Take it." Shaking my head, I backed further away from him and into the shelves. "Renadale, it's a library book. It is not the end of the world." He took a step forward, pressing the book into my ribs.

"I won't do it." Somehow, we were dangerously close. My body was pressed against the books and his was not much further away. The only thing separating him from the wood was my body. Our faces were less than pleased, but my pulse was racing with every synchronized breath. "Take the book," I mumbled. I was just dying for him to get away from me. The urge to kiss him was overwhelming.

"Very well then," he whispered harshly. He took a few steps backwards, allowing me to let loose a sigh of relief. "If something happens, I'm blaming you."

He headed back towards the door with sharpness in each step. My breath began to come out more naturally until the weight on my shoulders totally disappeared. "Blame me?" I spoke to myself. "You're the only one I can blame for these feelings."

With every step, I grew more curious about the hidden meaning in the book. Clearly, the books had a message in them that was beyond my grasp. In fact, it was probably so far from my grasp that Sherlock didn't even want to bother explaining it. I hoped that was not the case, but realistically, I was certain of it. My mind was racing with ideas as I entered the moriah.

_Is there an Illuminati code inside of the books? Do the symbols match up with the letters somehow? What if there are government secrets coded in the ink?_

"Renadale," Sherlock's voice snapped me back into reality as the carriage kicked off. "Stop thinking so hard. I can tell that it's hurting your head."

"Sorry. I'm just trying to think of an answer to my own questions. Unfortunately, you never bother to give me any."

His face twisted into one of bitterness as he pulled the book from his fading grey coat. "This book is what's troubling you?" I nodded. "You want to know why I took it." Once again I nodded. "Then I shall tell you. I didn't think telling you inside of a public place was the opportune moment."

"I suppose you're right."

"This is nothing more than a clue," he said as he tossed the book aside. "Whoever killed the men in Paris were members of the Illuminati and it is clear because of three books. Each book: Jekyll and Hyde, Les Miserables, and Jane Eyre… they all go against good ideas in society. Whether it's a war with government, a war with yourself or a war with practically everything, it is clear that the people need control. They need control through government and corporations and that is what the people do not seem to grasp."

"And this is what the Illuminati want? Strong government?" Sherlock merely smiled. "So, why did you need the book? If you're so clear about the truth of the matter, what made you steal it?"

"Because I need to figure out who the killer was. Whoever it was is gone now. They were eliminated. It's been too quiet for too long and there have been bigger bangs than a private murderer."

My next thought was a bit darker, but I couldn't help expressing it. "If they're dead… why does it matter if we find them?"

"Because if we find them, we are one step closer to finding who eliminated them. And if we find who eliminated them, we find the makers of the bomb." Sherlock crossed his leg easily over the other and leaned back with content. "You can help me with all of this. Until we figure out who this killer is, I'll be working on my plants and hunting down Irene Adler."

Ah, yes. Irene. I had nearly forgotten about her. "When are we going to find her?"

"Two days time." That was all he said before he retreated into silence.

I admit that I was partially excited to see Irene again. We had been getting closer before she disappeared and I was looking forward to sharing stories. Yet, somehow I didn't feel as though we would have the chance. Something was different about the whole scenario. We weren't finding her for a quick hello. We were finding her to get a bomb. It wouldn't be just a cup of tea and a chat about old memories. Everything was going to change in the blink of an eye.

As if it hadn't already.

My mind was too tired to continue with those thoughts. "Where are we going?" I mumbled as I saw the carriage begin to take us on a different path.

"The Diogenes Club," he answered without any form of delight. "I need some private time to read."

I thought for a moment that my hearing was failing. "Really? I can go in as well?"

He looked me up and down with consideration before providing an answer. "Do you still have those clothes I gave you?" I told him I didn't. I had left them in Watson's old office. "It doesn't matter. Mycroft is fond of you and no one takes notice of anyone else anyway unless they're talking. You can go to the Stranger's Room and speak to my brother. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you again."

"If you need me, I'd be more than willing to help."

"That's exactly why I must get rid of you."

I scoffed audibly to show my offense, but he took no notice. He merely flipped through the pages of the book without uttering a syllable. I didn't bother trying to strike up a conversation. In fact, I had no time to. We were at the club before I knew it and it didn't take me a second to rush towards the entrance.

As I stepped inside, the warm atmosphere instantly took me by surprise. A fire was glowing in the main room beside appropriately spaced leather seats. A few small tables were littered around for any sort of refreshments, and the curtains were clearly drawn shut. It was similar to a cozy, country living room. "Oh, this is lovely!" I announced.

Sherlock's hand quickly grabbed my arm and squeezed. I almost winced in pain, but his hand stopped my cry of pain. He shook his head, but did not utter a word. It didn't take me long to realize why. A few men seated in the main room had stirred at the sound of a voice. One pushed his glasses up his nose to make sure he was actually seeing a woman. Sherlock was swift to pull me into a private room before anyone else caught sight of me.

"This is the Stranger's Room," he said softly after closing the door. "It is the only room that you can speak in. Men get expelled for a single cough. If you attract any attention to yourself, Mycroft will not fail to have you removed."

"I thought he liked me." My voice was full of tease, but Sherlock was not in the mood to play games.

"He does. And he will be the one to entertain you for a short while. Now wait here." He disappeared for a few moments, leaving me alone once again. The green walls and scent of cinnamon instantly put me at ease.

"Miss Adkins!" A friendly voice soon rang out from the threshold. "Well, it's so good to see you again so soon! Of course I'm terribly sorry that I did not get to express my farewells properly."

"Oh, Mycroft! Please don't worry about it." I instantly went to him and took his hands in mine. "Your brother is in a rather frightening state. I'm just glad I have someone sane to speak to."

"Is the Doctor fellow not at home?"

I shook my head. "No, John won't be back at Baker Street for a while. He's with his fiancée. The wedding is very soon. In fact, they've been putting it on hold for so long that I'm surprised it's actually happening."

Mycroft grinned from ear to ear. "Well, I hear the man is quite daft, but I do hope that he finds happiness in the opposite sex. Most of the time those _wedding _things fall to ruin, though people suffer quietly through them. I'm actually impressed by people's loyalty these days."

Many parts of that statement made my smile fade, but one in particular struck me as odd. "Daft? Who said John Watson was daft?"

"Why, Sherly did." Mycroft smiled as though nothing were wrong with the world. "He often says that he is dim-witted, but that he does try very hard." I winced. If he said those words about Watson, who knows what he's said about me?

"I have good reason to believe that's far from the truth. John Watson is one of the wisest men I've ever met. He can balance personal aspects of life alongside his profession."

"Yes, well… Sherlock hardly ever says anything to me that is the truth. He lies through his teeth and means the opposite. He's very fond of that Doctor Watson, which is exactly why he_ cannot_ credit him." I smiled as Mycroft headed for tea table. "Would you care for some-"

"Get out," Sherlock muttered upon suddenly entering the room.

"But we were just-"

"No, no, I know what you were doing. I don't care. I need to speak to Renadale alone." Sherlock's fingers drummed against the spine of _Jekyll and Hyde_. Clearly, something he discovered was upsetting him and one look between Mycroft and I was enough to send the elder brother fleeing. Sherlock and I were soon alone and the tension in the room was evident.

"Do you need to sit?" I gestured towards a chair behind me.

"Sit? Sitting is for cats and people who are worthless." His voice was firm. Actually, it was too firm and I couldn't help but show my shock. He instantly realized his mistake. "I'm sorry." He took a step towards me. "I'm confused. I _admit_ that I'm confused. My mind is eating away at me and I can't seem to concentrate."

"I don't care if it's only for cats; you're going to sit." I wasn't going to take no for an answer, and I gently led him towards an old couch. His fingers were soft in my own and as he began to sit, I couldn't seem to let my fingers drop.

Something sparked as our skin touched. It was similar to the flashes of emotion I would get when he held me, but something about that particular moment was different. I didn't need the reassurance in his eyes to know that I was special to him, which was an entirely new sensation. Though the air was still and cool, my emotions were bubbling over the edge. Somehow, I could finally accept it. I was ready to give my heart to him. Why? It was what I wanted. I truly wished for something and wanted it badly enough to fight for it. My heart was no longer locked up. Sherlock Holmes had always had the key, but it had just now been turned.

"Sherlock," I muttered as his hand began to slip from mine. He clearly wasn't having the same epiphany that I was, but I wasn't about to let him spoil it. I quickly leaned forward and took his hand in my own. My fingers intertwined with his, which took him by clear surprise.

"Is something the matter?" His eyes darted from our laced fingers to my face.

"Yes…" I muttered breathlessly. "I think so. It's nothing bad, however. I feel as though now is not the proper time to be thinking of such things because you seem to be in a pessimistic mood." Judging by his expression, he was completely lost. "I would try to explain myself, but I don't think I can."

His lips curved into a frown. "That's a significant problem, I presume. If it were important enough, you would be able to explain yourself. Apparently it is not that dire of a situation."

"That's not it at all," I replied. "My feelings are too large right now for me to put in words and I think that is why I struggle so much." He was still beyond translation. The more he grew frustrated, the more I felt his fingers slip away from mine. He was not in the mood to feel belittled. If I tried to explain myself, I feared I would say something I'd regret. That word. Those four letters.

Love.

Love?

I wasn't ready to say anything like that. I wouldn't be able to explain myself to him. If I said something, all I could do was hope that he would hold my hand and kiss me. Admittedly, I wanted him to kiss me. I had wanted it to happen since the library. I felt scandalous just thinking about it, but somehow it felt right. "Sherlock?" I silently prayed that he would look at me.

Carefully, his head lifted to meet my eyes. My breath caught itself in my chest and I was afraid I would stop breathing all together. "Yes?" He mumbled while keeping his gaze fixated on me the entire time.

"What do you see… when you look at me?"

He wasn't going to answer the question right away. He almost looked angry that I even asked it. "I see a woman who does not realize her full potential." That wasn't exactly what I expected, but it was true and somehow made it more significant. "And out of curiosity, what do you see when you look at me?"

I certainly wasn't planning for him to ask that. Struggling with my inner conscience, it took me a moment to choose my words carefully. "I see a lot of things. I see genius and sometimes madness." A low grunt escaped his throat and I could not tell if it was irritation or agreement. "Sometimes I see a gentlemen and sometimes I see a fool who needs to watch what he says. Yet, in the end I see something to fight for… something to strive for."

Never in my life had I considered myself to be a romantic. I loved romance. I ate it up. But, _me_? Romantic? I could hardly say; "It's nice to meet you" without getting flustered. Handsome men charmed me and I locked myself away all the more for it.

"You are everything…" I continued softly. "… that captivates me. You entrance me in a peculiar way. You have carved yourself into my heart and I think it is difficult for me-" I was silenced by a pair of lips; lips that were becoming increasingly familiar. My heart paused for a moment to think about my situation. I could barely focus on the kiss in attempt to calm my wild heart. Things didn't last very long and my lips felt bare as he pulled away.

_Oh, what do I do? What do I say? Perhaps it's my turn. My _turn? _Renadale, this is not some game._

Hoping for the best, I cupped my hands around his cheeks and pulled him towards me once more. Neither of us expected this reaction, but I didn't fight it.

The friendly kiss that had originally ensued was changing rather quickly. I was so flustered, that my hands were uncertain of where to plant themselves. One moment they were holding his face, the next they were on his neck, then in his hair. I tried to pin them to my sides, but my body refused to let me. The deeper the kiss got, the more confused I grew. Why was this any different from our other kisses? What made this so much more frustrating?

"Sherlock," I said as our lips broke. I was about to ask him a serious question, but he was not interested. His body leaned forward in the chair to reach me. His lips met mine once again and this time more urgently. I hadn't noticed that my body was falling forward until I felt myself beside him in the chair. Naturally, there wasn't enough room and half of my body was on his. Redness was running to every pale speck on my body, but I couldn't fight off the growing temptation. Finally, my hands situated themselves comfortably on his arms and his around my waist.

"This isn't what I intended," I gasped as I turned my face away from his. "When I told you my feelings, I was not expecting this in return." Sherlock's chest heaved mechanically as clear frustration ran through his eyes. "I'm not saying that it's a bad thing." If my face wasn't hot before it was certainly on fire now. "It's just that-"

"Renadale," he interrupted. Pathetically, my mouth curled shut. "I've told you before that you speak too much. In fact, I'm stating to find it rather irksome."

"I know," I mumbled. "I apologize."

"Right," he sighed. "Well then."

It didn't take long for us to get lost into one another once again. My lips softly brushed against his and I could feel his breath on my skin. His eyelids flickered until they were shut completely. I slid my lips towards his cheek, planting a small kiss near his nose. He sighed heavily and I could hear burden laced behind it. Wanting to comfort him in any way, I planted another soft kiss along his jawbone. His eyes cracked open slightly, but I reached up and brushed my fingers over them, urging them to shut. "I'm sorry for everything you've been through," I whispered near his ear. "You don't deserve any sadness in your life."

Every so gently, I could feel his fingers slide themselves over my waist. He was holding me closely, but like one would with a porcelain doll. "It's not over yet," he answered. "Everything is just beginning and I fear it is far worse than we had anticipated."

"Just don't think about it. Not right now."

Something seemed to snap within him. Apparently my words affected him, because I was swept up into his arms; this time with no hesitation. My smile was unavoidable as our lips met over and over. As we held hands, our fingers danced around the others like a teenager. I had never been so happy in my entire life. He truly wanted me in his arms. He would not have held me so tightly if he had not. As our fingers brushed, his rough skin was something I was not fearful of becoming used to. I knew that I was running out of air as we continued on, and I could not help gasps escaping my lips every chance I got. After our fingers broke, and his hands found my waist again, his soft touch was difficult to resist. Moaning with confusion and excitement, I let my hands roam from his shoulders to his chest. Everything felt new to me, even though I had admired him for months. Everything was magnetic.

"Sherlock," I groaned as his lips found their way to my neck. My eyes continued to shut in ectasy as I tried desperately to open them. He didn't answer me, but continued to plant kisses along my skin; kisses filled with silent desire and struggle. "Sherlock…" I mumbled a bit softer, losing myself again to his touch. Struggling with his calm composure, he aimed for my own lips again and then pulled quickly away. It was too much to resist, and I reached forward but it was he who turned. I was at a loss for words, but I knew we had to give ourselves a moment to think.

"You're right," he managed to say. "It's not the time nor the place."

"No," I muttered against his cheek. "I wasn't going to say that."

"What were you going to say?"

What _was_ I going to say? Did I even remember? "I suppose I forgot." Sherlock turned to look at me for another second. His head cocked slowly to the side, before an unexpected smile slipped across it. It wasn't hard for me to feel suddenly vulnerable at that moment and I quickly slipped off the couch. "Why are you laughing?" My nervous fingers tugged strands of hair behind my ear.

"It's nothing." His laughed dismissively. "Honestly. You can just be… charming at points and you don't even realize it."

Oh. Well, that wasn't so bad to hear. Blushing, I tried to hide my smile. "You're one to talk." A smile was given in return, and I practically watched the shell of Sherlock Holmes tumble from his body. Who knew that all he needed to relax was a bit of love? If that was the case, I would be willing to calm him more often. "Perhaps we should go," I suggested. "It would be dangerous for someone other than Mycroft to take note of my appearance."

"That is a valid point," he replied. "And on that note, it's time to feed the goat."

~.~.~.~.~

"Mother, you know I don't like fish. I've never liked fish." While I was complaining to my mother, I couldn't seem to peel my eyes away from the creature lying before me on my plate. The red roses on the glass silverware did not seem to suit the decaying pile of scales. The smell was another complaint entirely.

"Renadale, it's good for you. Besides, it's what everyone eats here!" She gestured towards the other elegant members seated around us. A violinist and cellist were playing beautifully from a distant corner and the candle in the center of the table flickered on. Yet, I felt no peace.

"How upset would you be if I didn't eat it?" She didn't bother to grace that question with an answer. She merely dug away at her own meal, chewing with all the elegance she could muster.

"Alright," I grumbled as I plucked at the tail. "Here goes nothing." Slowly, I pulled the spine from the poor creature until it's head popped right off. It was all I could do not to turn my face away and relieve my stomach, but I held firm. "This is the craziest idea you've ever had."

"Today is your father and I's anniversary!" She pouted with a stab of her food. "He loved coming here with me. It was our special treat and I just wanted to relive a bit of the past. Is that so awful?" I could tell that she was genuinely upset. "You know, it would have been thirty years today."

My head hung in disgrace. Who was I to be complaining? We both missed my father. "I'm sorry, mother. I seem to be a bit on edge lately."

"Clearly," she said through a mouthful of fish. I took the moment of silence to get a better look at my mother. Her sagging eyes clearly expressed her sleeping issues, which were probably caused by me. Her hair was done up nicely and curled with precision. She wore her finest dress, which was by no means too fine, and added all the jewelry she could muster up. I think she hoped that somewhere my father could see her like this. "Mother," I said softly. "You look beautiful this evening."

She lifted her eyes for a second to meet mine, but returned them quickly to her plate. "You don't need to flatter me to make me feel better. All you have to do is eat your fish."

My stomach was growling. Once again, I had forgotten the last time I had eaten. My stomach was barely anything anymore and I missed the plumpness of my body that I had a few months ago. It seemed to disappear the day I met Holmes. "Alright, I will eat the fish. Don't expect this to become a habit."

"I don't."

We both ate the rest of our dinner in near silence. I asked how Mrs. Brettingham was doing and she only laughed. I took that as a negative connotation. She asked me how Sherlock was doing and I also laughed. It _was _a negative connotation.

"Renadale Adkins?" A soft voice rung out behind me. My mother looked up in surprise as I turned to see the speaker.

"Well, Mary!" I laughed. "It's so wonderful to see you!" I quickly stood from my chair to greet her. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"This is John and I's favorite restaurant," she smiled shyly. "We come here very often. I'm honestly surprised to see you here!" Her smile quickly dissolved. "Not that you can't afford it… I didn't mean it like that. I merely meant that I don't see you out much." Her cheeks were as red as the crimson tablecloth.

I laughed at her discomfort. "No, you're absolutely right. I'm only out tonight to celebrate my parent's thirtieth wedding anniversary."

"How wonderful!" Her eyes found my mother and she waved politely. My mother returned the gesture with a warm smile. "Actually, it truly_ is_ wonderful running into you. I've been wanting to speak to you about something."

A sinking feeling shifted in my stomach. I had completely forgotten. The letter! Two days ago I had asked Watson to write a letter telling Mary that she and I would have lunch the next day. "Oh, Mary!" I gasped. It was my turn for my cheeks to turn red. "I'm so sorry that I missed it…"

Mary laughed and placed a comforting hand upon my shoulder. "Do not worry about it by all means. John told me that things were busy with you and we should just wait until a better moment for me to ask you."

"Well, that's very kind of you to be so understanding. John had told me that you had something to request. Might I inquire as to what it might be?"

"You see, most of my family lives out of London. They're also not the most level-headed people in the world, especially when it comes to weddings." She rolled her green-blue eyes. "It's been frustrating lately with my sister and everything, and planning things have practically made us _and _the wedding fall to pieces." I listened patiently and wondered where this was going. "Overall, I thought that I needed someone who could help with things who was much more levelheaded. Truth be told, you're one of the few people I feel comfortable with in London. If you'd be willing to help me with the wedding, I would be eternally grateful."

She didn't need to go into a big speech to get me to accept. "Absolutely!" My reply seemed to take her by surprise. "I'm not too sure how those things work, but I'm sure I can figure it out! And besides, it would allow me an escape from our two manic friends."

Mary could not repress her happiness. "Oh, Renadale, thank you so much! I know how quick things are happening. The wedding is coming up in practically a week and there is still so much to be done." I thought about the case and how much it was taking over my life. Mary's wedding would certainly be domineering as well. Sacrifices would have to be made on both ends, but they would both allow me an escape from the other. "We'll have to meet up tomorrow and talk things over. I haven't even gotten any of the flowers yet, and believe it or not, I need a veil!"

My first thought was of Gwendolen, Irene's hat making friend. She might recognize me as the awkward girl in her store and give me a discount. It was unlikely, but at least I knew of someone. "Not to worry," I reassured. "I already have ideas floating about."

"You do?" She seemed surprised. "I suppose choosing you as my helper was the best decision I've made so far." Her perfect white teeth gleamed against her green dress. "That is, of course, after marrying John."

I firmly nodded to show my agreement. It wasn't a moment later that John came up to Mary's side, pressing his hand into her back. "Love, shouldn't we go sit down?" His eyes were fixated on his fiancée, but it didn't take him too long to see me standing there. "Rena? What on Earth are you doing here?"

"I'll explain it all at the table, dear," Mary answered with a smile.

"Well, it's been lovely seeing you," he laughed. "I'll be seeing you very soon, dear friend." He sent me a grin before walking away with Mary.

It felt good knowing that these two people were my friends. It had been years since I had had true friends, but watching the Watsons walk away made me feel loved. I wondered how I had gone so long without people like them.

"Renadale, sit down. Your fish is getting cold." My mother's voice rang out irritably in my ear.

"Yes, mother," I sighed as I slid into the seat.

"Don't slide into the seat like that. Push your hair out of your eyes. Hold your fork more firmly! You look like an invalid."

I shut my eyes for a brief moment, just taking in the atmosphere. I could hear conversations flowing about the room. Some people were speaking of politics. Others were discussing family. Most people were gossiping about a Jane or an Issac. I was being ridiculed by my mother. It wasn't exactly odd for me, but since I was soon to be twenty-six, I figured things should end up changing pretty soon.

"Mother… What made you marry father?" I said as I poked and prodded at my food. She didn't answer straight away, but eventually her tongue got the better of her.

"Well, he was a thin little thing. At first I thought he was rather strange. He always had this way of seeing the world with more than his eyes. It was like he saw everything with his heart. The more time we began spending together, the more I fell in love with him." As her story continued, her voice began to slow and droop. Her strict tone disappeared and was now laced with gloom. "He kept trying to get me to marry him. I was eighteen when he first proposed. I think he had to ask me about forty more times, until I finally accepted at the age of twenty. We were good friends by that point and I knew I could trust him. He was a good man, your father. The best man there ever was."

I felt tears spilling over the edges of my eyes, but I wasn't going to hide them. Though I was crying, there was a smile stretched across my face. I couldn't have asked for a sweeter memory to think of my father by. I stared down at my plate in silence.

If my mother could spill her heart, the least I could do was eat a fish.

~.~.~.~.~

The solitude of one's room can be really overbearing at specific points. It may be deemed as a safe haven for poets, thinkers, and religious leaders, but I found the confines of my own bedroom to be suffocating.

After my mother and I left the restaurant and headed home, it didn't take her any more than a half hour to fall asleep in the kitchen. Naturally, I ushered her upstairs and put her to sleep. Then it was just myself. I could hear the sound of our apartment creaking when my feet weren't even moving. My mind was beginning to play tricks on me when I thought I could hear the patter of bug legs on the wall.

_Calm down Renadale, it's only your mind. Go read a book. _

As soon as the idea came into my head, my legs were not slow to run towards my desk. I snatched Moriarty's book and flipped it open to a random page. "'The asteroid, as you likely know, is made up of rocks, metals…'" The words continued on, but my voice did not. I was reading something that was practically carved in my brain. Nothing was new and exciting.

I looked at my clock. _Only ten o' clock?_

My head hit the desk with a thud. How could Sherlock do it? I was honestly baffled! How could he sit at home alone for an hour, let alone five minutes? No wonder he was going mad. I myself felt like I was losing a bit of my sanity.

My eyes began to lull to a close. I slumbered for a bit and awoke with a sharp pain in my neck from sleeping in the wrong position. I hoped that hours had passed, but when I glanced at the time I was less than pleased.

_10:07._

"Seven minutes?" I croaked. "Well, that's just not fair."

My thoughts shifted from here to there. Mary and John crept in first, and for a while I thought of weddings ideas. _Candelabras… there should certainly be candelabras! Her veil should have flowers at the top that match her bouquet. _

Then Edward came along and stayed there for quite some time. Naturally, Thomas followed. I couldn't bear to think about any of that, so I focused on the one thing that I knew very little about.

The case.

Who was the single murderer of those men in Paris? Who could it have been? Clearly they were full of imagination. Their method of killing was certainly inventive, as dark and sinister as it was. Whenever I imagined someone in my head, I couldn't help but picture them as… well… young. They would have to be youthful, wouldn't they? I thought long and hard about all of the facts I knew.

_The Illuminati symbols were dug deep into the wood. Clearly, he used a knife. The markings weren't carved thickly or cleanly. He must have been nervous because his hands were shaking. And his knife was probably dull judging by the lack of depth. _

Was I actually getting somewhere? I wasn't sure, but my sudden spark urged me to grab some parchment and scribble my thoughts down.

_Thoughts about the single killer of the Illuminati markings_

_By: Renadale Adkins_

_-Clearly a member of the Illuminati_

_-Probably youthful judging by his immature and non-secretive form of murder. _

_-One of his first killing sprees since he was nervous (see below note)_

_-Used a dull blade judging by the depth of the wood above the doorways. Murderer was perhaps nervous because of the lack of tidiness in his sketches_

_-Was most likely short because of the height of the doorways._

_-Assuming he is not French. The English books inform us that this man knows English and probably resides near London._

_-Works for a bigger corporation who took over after his motives were becoming too public and easily targetable_

My quill stopped as ink struggled to dry from my last word. "Corporation?" I muttered. Something wasn't right. Irene was a part of that 'corporation'. Yet, she had never worded it like that. She just said she had an employer.

Was she working for a single person? Did he control an empire? Was there a single man out there who had so much power that he could blow off bombs left and right with the snap of a finger?

My pen slowly fell from my fingers. The skin beneath my eyes was beginning to grow as black as the ink on my page. Things were too difficult for me to figure out on my own. My focus trickled over my scrawled thoughts. _At least I put some effort into it. _I thought before climbing into bed.

I knew there was a big issue that we were going to face. I knew there was someone with unimaginable power that we were up against. I just couldn't stop thinking about the man who used the book method. His memory was slipping from us faster than soap as we turned to the bigger picture.

"Who are you?" I whispered in the ear-splitting silence. "Just, who are you?"

~.~.~.~.~.~

Moriarty glanced down at the patch of raw dirt and shook his head. He couldn't help but smiling. It looked as though nothing had been there. Nothing was dug. Nothing was buried. Nothing was covered up. It was just a patch of land in the outskirts of town.

He cocked his head to the side and kicked up a bit of dust. The sprinkles of Earth spilled over his perfectly polished shoes. "Oh, look at that." He laughed to himself. "You're still getting my hands dirty even after you're dead." His words were directed at the ground, but no answer was given in return. "It's a shame, really. So young. So _stupid_."

He began to walk away from the sight, but the smile never disappeared from his sight. "I warned you…" he grumbled to himself.

"No loose ends."

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Much love, please review. Look for an AN on Sunday/Monday. xx**


	12. AN and a scene from Sherlock 4! :

Hello again! Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews over the weekend. I was away, so it was a grand thing to come home to! (:

I actually have very little to say in this AN… just thanks again and I really hope you consider reading the next installment. I expect it to be posted in the next few weeks, so be sure to put me on author's alert! I do need to update my Alice in Wonderland story before anything else.

But, since you've all been so lovely, I thought I'd grace you with a little sneak peek of the upcoming adventure…

_My heart was racing like mad. Polka music ceased to stop ringing in my ears, but I had to stay focus. I had to keep calm and act like I knew what I was doing. _

_Even though I didn't have a clue._

"_What are you doing?" A girl's shrilly voice shouted into my head. "You're up next! It's your turn!" I could hear her complaints, but nothing was motivating me to move. I hardly ever faced society, and now that I finally was, I was going to make myself look like a fool. "Go!"_

_Just before she shoved me, I caught one more look at myself in a nearby mirror. I wasn't wearing any proper bottoms, only skin-hugging, white tights. My legs were thin and lean, but I wasn't exactly motivated to show them off so much. Just above them, my torso was pinched by a glitzy, purple corset that displayed even more of my bodice. My makeup could be seen from ten miles away, along with my ridiculous feathery hairdo._

_How did I even get myself into this one? I had been in messes before, but none quite so extreme. I much preferred my newsboy cap. _

_I didn't have too much time to think before someone roughly shoved me from behind the curtains. The cheery faces of drunken men welcomed me with lust as I stumbled over my heels and onto the wooden stage. _

_Their anxious eyes were looking me over as their arms raised their glasses to the sky._

_Knowing the punishments, I forced a glowing smile. With a flick of my arm above my head and a bow, I was no longer Renadale Adkins._

So, can you guess where she is?

Leave a review & take a wild stab! (:

Much love. See you soon!

~MISTRO, RENA, JOHNNY BOY AND SHERLY~


	13. UPDATE!

Hey everyone! The fourth installment of the Holmes Stories has been posted. Please read and review!

Much love

Xx

mistro


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